


In a Coat of Green or a Coat of Grey, a Rose Bloom Still Has Thorns

by gabrielleholland



Series: queens [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Content warnings:, F/M, M/M, Mentions of Death, Mentions of Sex, Non-Explicit Sexual Intercourse, Ok Those are the Boring Tags, POV Margaery Tyrell, POV Third Person Limited, R Plus L Equals J, Robbaery-Centric, Vulgar Language, also i’m not adding aegon son of rhaegar because i’m lazy, also the greyjoy plot has been major trimmed, euron who?, ignore the trash description i suck at writing them, jonerys is nearer the end and in the planned sequel, just ignore the fact the direwolves are already full size in chapter 1, mainly book canon but some events are pulled more from the show, red wedding? i don’t know her
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-08-08 10:25:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16427561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabrielleholland/pseuds/gabrielleholland
Summary: Margaery had never thought she would wed Robb Stark. She had expected, nay, worked towards marrying the Crown Prince and becoming Queen of all Westeros. Instead, without any real explanation, her Grandmother has her betrothed and shipped off North.And so begins the union of Wolf and Rose, but even roses have thorns.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! A few quick notes:
> 
> This is a blend of show and book canon. It more closely follows the books, but a lot of the later stuff comes from the later seasons of Game of Thrones (except redone a little. Seasons 5-7 were kinda messy)
> 
> update schedule should be once a week or so
> 
> Ages for the characters have been generally book-accurate but I did age a few up. Here’s the list (these are the ages the characters would turn in 298 AC)
> 
> STARK:  
> robb- b. 283, 15  
> jon- b. 283, 15  
> sansa- b. 286, 12  
> arya- b. 287, 11  
> bran- b. 289, 9  
> rickon- b. 292, 6  
> TYRELL:  
> willas- b. 275, 23  
> garlan- b. 277, 21  
> loras- b. 282, 16  
> marg- b. 283, 15  
> OTHER:  
> theon- b. 279, 19  
> dany- b. 284, 14  
> shireen- b. 289, 9  
> gendry- b. 283, 15  
> meera- b. 283, 15  
> jojen- b. 286, 12
> 
> hope you enjoy this!

 

   “For the last time Margaery, wipe that bloody grimace off your face. Your incessant whining this entire trip has aged me tremendously. I fear I shan’t make the trip back home.”

   Margaery huffed, pulling her cloak tighter around her shoulders. “If anyone is whining, grandmother, it is _you_. I have been nothing but roses and sunshine.” That earned her a snort from Loras and a swift though clearly half-hearted whack from her grandmother’s fan. She still didn’t get why Olenna had brought it, when Margaery herself was chilled to the bone. “And besides, it’s not as if you have great company back home. Bar Willas it is all fools and empty-headed wenches. And Garlan I suppose, but Leonette has him all dopey smiles and quite nothing else.”

   “Hm, I don’t disagree. Your father complains even more than you do, and your mother has been intolerable since the betrothal. _My sweet Margaery this, my sweet Margaery that_. As if that woman gives a single care about you.”

   Loras rolled his eyes. “ _Grandmother_. Alerie is a kind woman who loves us dearly.”

   Olenna gave a short, curt laugh. “Aye Loras, kindness. What an admirable trait. She loves you when you make her look like a successful wife and mother.”

  There was a silence, broken when Margaery huffed once more. “I still think I could have tamed him.”

   “I’m not taking that risk, Margaery. If our people are correct the boy is a destructive menace at best, and Maegor the Cruel come again at worst. And Cersei- ha! That woman is half insanity, half idiocy. She’d have seen you as a threat and treated you accordingly.”

   “You have so little faith in me, grandmother? I could have been Queen of all Westeros.”

   “And with the Stark boy you shall be Lady of the North and _survive_.” Her grandmother’s stern face melted, replaced by one of her rare kindly expression. “Sweetling, the Lannisters cannot be trusted. Tywin is the last intellectual in that family and need I call a singer to play the Rains of Castamere? His progeny is hardly better. The Kingslayer is, well, a kingslayer, the half-man is a whore-ing alcoholic and the Queen would blow up King’s Landing if it meant eradicating her enemies. The Starks, on the other hand, are malleable and predictable. What will they do, honour us to death?” She chortled again, taking a long swing of wine. 

   “I-”

   Olenna exhaled with exasperation. “No, you couldn’t have. I don’t care what king sits his behind on that throne, the Lannisters are ruling King’s Landing. What are our choices? You are a Tyrell, and I refuse to settle for less than one of the Great Houses. I’d rather die than let you wed a Greyjoy or Jon Arryn’s awful half-wit of a boy, Stannis has yet to bear his wife a son, Renly...well, I’m sure Loras can attest to him.” Loras grumbled but did not deign to reply. “Unless Doran cripples his brother, I will not let you step foot in that hellhole. And what is left? The Tullys and the Starks. The years have taken Hoster’s wits, and his son...Edwyle? Well, they say he is a woman of a man so mayhaps he would have been a half-decent choice, but who cares about the Riverlands anyway? It’s just fish and Freys. The North on the other hand, is the largest kingdom and we have not had a Northern marriage in...well, many a year. We will be needing furs and timber in the years to come. If the Starks are correct in anything, it is that Winter is Coming.”

   “Grandmother, we have furs and timber.” She sighed dramatically. “It is absolutely unfair. I have no friends here, no singers, no parties, I have to wear thick hides and none of my dresses, I won’t even have Loras or Garlan or Willas or _you_ , and _I don’t get to be Queen_.” Olenna gives her a sympathetic, small smile, imperceptible if you did not know her, before returning to her usual glower. Margaery was left to sit in sullen silence, frigid as she awaited her fate.

 

 

   She did not remember falling asleep, but she woke with a start as Loras nudged her. “Come, sister. We are here.” She had been dreaming of Highgarden; the sweet smells of blossoms, the laughter of her cousins, the taste of Beesbury honey cakes and Fossoway apple cider, the warm sunshine that settled costly on her skin. She wondered when she’d see it again, nay, _if_ she’d _ever_ see it again. She did not hide her contempt for her betrothal. She’d wanted to marry Joffrey, and sit above everyone who could ever live. Queen Margaery Tyrell, what a name! She didn’t give quite a care to the Baratheon boy, he could have looked like Florian the Fool for all she cared, but he was _Crown Prince Joffrey_ and that was all that mattered. Perhaps she was shallow. So what?

   She could see the towers of Winterfell in the distance, backed by the setting sun. All she wanted to do was ride her horse over but Olenna had deemed that too wild and so she sat anxiously and impatiently in the carriage as they drew ever so closer. She took a breath, gave a silent prayer to the gods and adorned a winning smile. If she was going to have to endure a frozen hell she might as well do it properly.

   The carriage stopped with a jolt, and she gripped Loras’ arm, half for balance and half for protection. Olenna and Loras would be leaving straight after the wedding in a fortnight, Olenna to Highgarden and Loras to King’s Landing. She didn’t want them to go. Olenna had raised her better than her parents, and Loras had been her confidant since infancy. He took her hand and gave a comforting squeeze before opening the carriage door. She pulled her furs a little closer as a crisp wind blew through her hair. 

   Winterfell was grim, grey and glacial, everything Highgarden was not. She felt cramped by the granite walls that felt as if they grew ever closer with every breath she took, so unlike the beautiful warm white stone that composed her home. The walls are mostly bare, bare ropes and ladders and other rather dull accoutrements, so unlike the ivy, rose and grape lined towers of Highgarden. Under her thick boots she felt gravel and dirt and all she wanted was to spirit away back to Highgarden and feel the warm marble under her feet as she followed the veins of gold that ran through it.

   She beamed as if this is heaven and not some cruelly sick punishment. 

   The Starks were waiting for her. They stood in front of what she assumes is the household. She’s struck somewhat, by how much they look like a family. Though half don auburn hair and blue eyes and the other brown and grey, if she saw them apart she would have pegged them as being related. She can make them all out, their names and descriptions having been drilled into her head.

   Eddard, stoic and austere, stood like a statue beside his wife Catelyn, a smiling woman perhaps a few years younger than Margaery’s own mother. She had a kind if somewhat stony and stern face, though very beautiful. Rickon, the youngest boy, stood in front of her, a wild look on his little face. Beside Catelyn is Sansa, who is tall despite her age and keeps an air of grace and sweetness. On her left is Arya, the one they called wild and boyish, both of which Margaery can see in the girl’s manner. Lastly is Brandon, who looks rather bored and fidgets with his sleeve. 

   To Eddard’s right, stood Robb, her betrothed. He was handsome and comely, with thick auburn hair that falls in light curls and eyes an icy-blue, quite like the waters of the Mander back home. He is not the worst man one could be saddled with. She is lucky, she knows. A man her age, fair and attractive. She can see he is taken by her, in the way his jaw tightens and he averts his eyes when hers’ settle on them. He would be an easy conquest.

   She strode over, Loras and her grandmother following. Eddard bows. “Lady Olenna, Lady Margaery, Ser Loras. House Stark welcomes you to Winterfell.”

   Margaery curtsied respectfully, smiling widely. “Lord Stark. It is a pleasure to meet my future family and home.” She bends down so that she’s eye level with Rickon. A simple tactic, informality. She pulls a sweet apple candy from her pocket. She looks to Catelyn for consent, and the woman nods and smiles with slight bemusement. “A sweet treat for a sweet boy.” She ruffles his hair as he pops it in his mouth. She moves next to Sansa. “I am quite glad that we are to be sisters. I hope we shall be bosom friends.” Sansa smiles shyly, and Margaery can see the delight on her face. Arya has a rather sour look, evidently having pinned Margaery as another annoying Lady. “I hear you’re a skilled horsewoman. I would rather like to go riding with you one day, or perhaps hawking when you are old enough.” Arya’s scowl turned to one of surprise before returning to a scowl, though it looked rather half-hearted. She then moved to Bran, producing a candy for him as well. “I saw you climbing as we rode through. You must be careful, or I won’t be able to get to know you.” She pinches his cheek playfully and he nods. She moves back up the line to Robb, who has been watching this all with a keen eye.

   “My Lady.” He said it like an observation, rather than a formality. He kissed her hand chastely, clearly rather uncomfortable. Yes, an easy conquest indeed. “It is an honour to finally meet you.”

   “The sentiment is mine, my lord. Our Houses have been untethered too long.” She turns to her future goodfather. “I beg that we may go inside, the ride has been long and I am sure my grandmother is quite weary. Perhaps she can retire to her quarters early?” If they weren’t in this situation, no doubt her grandmother would have snorted. Margaery didn’t quite care though. Her betrothal to the Stark boy was her grandmother’s doing, and if Margaery was to spin this awful situation into something livable she did not need Olenna’s quick tongue offending the Starks. Eddard nodded and had the steward show Olenna to her room, before ushering the rest of the group within, but before Margaery can follow a beast ran towards her. 

   “Oh!” She gasps, as dainty as she can, grabbing her skirts before the creature can destroy them. She is not about to lose her dignity on the first bloody day. The beast is in fact a rather large wolf, grey as a rock with eyes the colour of sunflowers. Loras darts in front of her, his hand reaching for his sword. 

   “Robb! Get ahold of it before he topples the poor girl over.” Scolded Catelyn. “My deepest apologies L-”

   “No! No, it’s quite alright.” Margaery laughed as musically as she could. “I...I have never known someone to own a wolf as a pet.” The wolf sniffed her suspiciously and growled. Robb, who had been watching the situation unfold rather curiously, makes a sharp whistle. 

   “Grey Wind, away.” The wolf growled once more before retreating. There was a slightly awkward silence before Eddard coughed.

   “Shall we?” He said, gesturing to the castle. Robb offered his arm, and it stiffened when she took it. She fumbled with her brooch in an attempt to calm her nerves, a golden rose with leaves made of silver dyed green, seed pearls dotting the petals like dew drops, an early wedding gift from her grandmother. It did not work.

   “He is not a pet.” He mumbled after a long pause.

   “Hm?”

   “Grey Wind,” Robb clarified. “He is not my pet, nor do I own him. He is...a friend.” She did not know whether to take that as sweet or sad. “A familiar.”

   “I did not take you for a witch.” She japes, but he does not laugh. Perhaps he will not be so easy to conquer. 

   The Grand Hall was just that- grand. The walls were tall and formidable, adorned with banners. The tables were laid for dinner; a roast assortmant with rustic vegetables. The smell reminded her that she had not eaten since the morning, but it also swelled within her a need to heave. She wondered what was happening back home. It was her mother’s nameday, if Margaery had her dates correct, so they were probably eating honey, rosemary and lavender lamb, an Oldtown signature dish. Margaery had never liked it much, it was too sweet, but she found herself homesick for it. The flower smells that clung to the Highgarden dinner hall for days, the honey sauce dripping from Garlan’s face and Leonette laughing as she wiped it away and Willas making a jape about them. She turned to Loras, desperate to memorise every detail of his face. She would miss her brothers most of all.

   She kept her smile though, and sat through the dinner as if throwing herself off the tallest tower wasn’t an option she was considering. As the dinner began, Eddard turned to her and her brother.

   “I don’t believe our ravens reached you. Lord Jon Arryn is dead, and King Robert will be making the trip north, with a great party. The Queen, the princes and princesses and the Queen’s brothers will also be in attendance. We received the news only a few days after you and your host left Highgarden.” There was a silence, before Margaery smiled.

   “How wonderful. I have not yet had the honour of meeting His Grace. I understand you were well aquatinted in youth?” The conversation continues rather uneventfully, and all Margaery can think of is how the Gods have spat at her feet. _Look here,_ they taunt, _look at this future you could have had! Watch us dangle the crown in your face while you marry into a family of ice._

   The dinner was torture, but she stayed the sweet lady. She answered the questions, regaled them with tales of Highgarden, spoke kindly of her family back home, gushed over Winterfell. It was all rather tedious but she kept it up. She was sat between Sansa and Robb, though she itched to sit beside Loras. Sansa was a sweet girl, if a little puerile and if Margaery closed her eyes she could probably imagine her as cousin Alla but it just wasn’t the same.

  When dessert was taken away, Catelyn smiled “Do you see a great many singers in Highgarden, Lady Margaery?”

   “Oh yes.” Margaery replied, wistful and aching. What she’d give to hear the Blue Bard play  _A Rose of Gold_ or _My Lady Wife_. “We usually have a few living in at any time.”

   Sansa sighed. “Singers don’t much like to make the trip North. It is a great treat when they do, though.” Margaery partly wished she hadn’t sent her grandmother to her room, for at that moment all she wanted was to once again implore as to why in Seven Hells she’d forced Margaery into this. 

   “Perhaps we could have my father send a few our way.” Margaery sighed. “I’ll have grandmother tell father to lend us Red Aster. She is quite a favourite of mine.” Loras’ ears pricked up. It was their code word, one they’d had since they were young. They’d always liked the idea of a secret language only they knew, and they’d devised a list of such. _Maris Flowers_ meant mother, _Luthor Greenhand_ meant father, _Leo Brokethorn_  meant Willas, _Gallard Two-Score_ was Garlan and _Gilberta_ was grandmother. They’d added to the list over the years, adding _Rhaelle_  for Renly only a few years back. More seriously, they had _yellow carnation_  for one being in danger and _purple peony_ for one being forced to lie. _Red aster_ meant one wanted to leave immediately, which was absolutely what Margaery wanted to do.

    “I fear it is growing quite late. Perhaps my sister and I could turn in for the night? The journey north has been long and tiring.”

   “Of course.” Catelyn turned to her daughter. “I’m sure Sansa can show you to your rooms.” Sansa stood eagerly, directing the two out. 

   “Sansa,” Margaery plastered a winning smile on her face. “I am truly glad we are to be sisters. I miss my cousins terribly, and it is good I have you.” Sansa beamed.

   “I have never had such a sweet sister before. Well, I have Arya but she is more brother than any of my siblings.” Sansa turned her nose up, and Margaery couldn’t help wish she was talking with the younger sister in question. She might have been better conversation. “I don’t have any cousins. My Uncle Brandon and my Aunt Lyanna died before they could bear children, and my Uncle Benjen took the black. But I hear you have many.”

   “Indeed. House Tyrell’s rose bush has many branches. Those closest in age to me are Megga, Alla and Elinor. They are my bosom friends. I shall miss them terribly.” Not likely. Elinor was decent, but Megga was exasperating and Alla was a bundle of clumsy awkwardness. “Perhaps one day I can introduce you to them.”

   “Oh, that would be lovely. I haven’t many girlfriends in Winterfell. There is Jeyne Poole, she is the daughter of my Father’s steward, and Beth Cassel, of the master-at-arms.” It was rather pitiful, if Margaery were completely honest. Perhaps it was hypocritical, given House Tyrell’s beginnings, but the idea that the servents’ whelps were to be her greatest companions here made her want to roll her eyes.

   “I would be honoured to meet them.” She said, and they fall into a silence. She’s glad of it, as it she’s dreadful bored of conversing with Sansa. No matter how kind the girl is, she was rather tepid. Margaery noticed how the girl looked at Loras. It was a look she was familiar with, one that girl’s frequently gave Loras. They usually recieved only perplexed disregard. Margaery though was somewhat amused at this development, and had half a mind to tell the poor child she was barking up the wrong tree. She didn’t, of course, though she entertained herself with the thought.

   When they reached the rooms, Sansa stammered shyly. “I hope they’re to your liking. Your Grandmother is just over there. Goodnight Lady Margaery, Ser Loras.” She hurried away, and Margaery smile dropped the moment she was gone. The two barged into Olenna’s room, where the woman was berating a poor servant.

   “Lord, is that all the drink you have here? Mead and rum and mulled wine, how primitive. Have someone bring a cask of Arbour Gold. Margaery, Loras, come here. There’s some fruit and cheese, and wine soon if this lackwit would hurry up and leave.” She gave the servant a sympathetic smile, one that made the boy blush. He left hurriedly, and Olenna gestured for them to sit. “Now, how do you like the Starks? I’d give my opinion if you hadn’t swept me under the rug. Weary- hm!”

   Loras rolled his eyes. “You’d have scared them half to death, Grandmother. That little serving boy looked as if he would cry.”

   “The Starks are made of tougher stuff than some common serving boy. Now do tell, Margaery.”

   Her anger fumed. “I hate it. I hate this more than anything. I can’t belive you’re making me do this. Do you hate me so, Grandmother? Lord and Lady Stark are like blocks of ice, the eldest girl is a simpering squirrel, the younger ones are wild and my betrothed keeps a _direwolf_ as a _pet_. A _direwolf_ , Grandmother. They have no singers, no parties, no cousins, no nothing. How in all Seven Hell’s is this furthering House Tyrell? We could have been royalty. Oh! And on royalty, they’re to visit, Grandmother. _Visit_. It’s so unfair.” Her grandmother dropped her goblet.

   “Who? Why?”

   Margaery was surprised at her grandmother’s outburst. As sharp as the old woman was, she was always collected. “The King, his wife, the children, the Queen’s family. Lord Stark says Jon Arryn died. A quick fever, or something.” Olenna fell silent. “Grandmother? Are you alright? Do you need me to call-”

   “All of them? You’re quite sure?” Margaery nodded. “Gods, no. Gods! The very reason I bring you here and it’s all out the window. No doubt King Oaf is here to raise Lord Stark to Hand of the King, or to marry that dreadful boy to Stark’s daughter-”

   “ _What!?_ _Sansa_ is to wed the _Prince_? Gra-”

   “For Gods’ sakes Margaery, _hush_. This isn’t about power, or marriage, or whatever you’re thinking of. You feel it to, surely. You know it to be true. There’s unrest in the Kingdom, everything falling apart. Littlefinger, Varys, the Lannisters...Our King will be dead soon, there’s no doubt about that. I brought you to this sickly part of the country to keep you away from all that. I was sheltering you. If you were to wed Joffrey, House Tyrell would be brought into whatever wars Tywin and Cersei are scheming. Jon Arryn is their doing, surely. They said he’d been talking to Stannis, I thought he was just shoving that awful son of his onto him, but no. Something must have happened. I thought if war did break out the Starks wouldn’t participate. Winter, and the North and all that. Winter! Gods, may the Others strike us down. Nine years of summer, Margaery. Nine years. Winter will be unforgiving. I thought mayhaps the Starks would be far more well equipped, but if Stark is to be Hand-” She stopped abruptly as the serrant boy ran in with the cask. “Out!” Rasped Olenna, and the boy obeyed. She poured herself a glass. Margaery had half a mind to as well.

   “Grandmother, I-” 

   “ _Out!_ ” She repeated, and Loras had to pull Margaery out the door

 

 

   She twisted and turned for what felt like hours, but the position of the moon said otherwise. Margaery had wanted to be Queen to stop this kind of thing. She could not shake her grandmother’s words. How could she have been so shallow, so blind? She was no better than her insipid cousins. A Queen knew such goings on, a Queen was prepared. The room was warm but all Margaery felt was ice, even when wrapped in all her furs. She stretched out of bed, slipping on a nightdress and nightgown. She needed air. She needed peace.

   The halls of Winterfell felt both frighteningly empty and yet so haunted. She felt like all the dead Starks were watching her, that the walls that held secrets were judging her. _Another superficial southron whore_ , they scream. She runs out, gasping for air as the cold wind blows through her skirts. She thinks of going to find the sept, but she can’t bear to go back into the castle. Instead she follows the massive weirdwood. The godswood in Highgarden is beautiful, a place to sing and dance and read. The godswood in Winterfell is cold, and not just in temperature, and she does not feel welcome. This is not her place. This is of the Starks, of the North. What does she know of the Old Gods? 

   Voices halt her in her steps. “I tell you Robb, you lucked out. The Highgarden Whore-”

   “Do shut up Theon. The Godswood is not for your bawdy jests, and it is not right to speak of a Lady in that way.”

   “Jump off your high horse and into a ditch, Snow. Have you fallen for her charms too? More like her tits, her dress was so low-”

   “Theon, I swear to the Old Gods and New, I will punch you. You’re drunk, go back to your room. I’m trying to pray.”

   “Oh Robb, tut tut tut-”

   “Tut one more time and I’ll-” Margaery hissed and scolded herself. She tried desperately to kick away the stick she’d just broken, but it only made more noise. There was a low growl, and the yellow eyes of Grey Wind found her. Robb, Jon and Theon walked into the clearing, and Margaery donned the face of an innocent maiden.

  “Oh! I didn’t know anyone was here. I couldn’t sleep, I thought I’d clear my head. I’m sorry, I’ll-”

   “Lady Margaery.” Greeted Robb, colder than she’d have liked. “My half-brother, Jon Snow, and my father’s ward, Theon Greyjoy.” Jon’s eyes were even colder than Robb’s, the hard grey like chinks of ice. She misliked the hungry look Greyjoy gave her, but she was familiar with it. “They were just leaving.” Greyjoy mumbled something she didn’t hear, though the snicker was enough to guess. Jon elbowed him hard in the rib before bowing. 

   “My Lady.” He said, before escorting Greyjoy away. Margaery stood in her nightclothes, only now realising how thin they were. She half-thought she’d wake up with icicles hanging from her hair tomorrow.

   “I apologise, my lord. It was improper of me to invade your family’s place of worship.”

   “Everyone is welcome in the godswood.” He replied. “Though most do not take the offer.”

   “I just...I was quite homesick...I thought mayhaps I could, well...maybe be connected to the weirdwoods back home.” His face softened and she hid her relief.

   He stood silent for a few moments. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you didn’t have much say in your marriage to the North. It is not a place southerners always feel comfortable. My...my mother is like you. From the South. I know she sometimes feels a disconnect.”

   “It has its own beauty.” She replied carefully. “A brutal beauty, but a beauty nonetheless. I’ll...I’ll leave you to your worship.” She ducked her head and turned, eager to get the sight of those yellow eyes from her head. The direwolf trusted her less than she did it.

   “Lady Margaery, I...” She turned back around. “G-goodnight, my Lady. Sleep well.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i planned on writing most if not all chapters BEFORE posting on ao3 because i have a a horrid habit of starting stuff and never finishing it but i’m posting this first chapter so this draft isn’t deleted from the archive. you may have to wait a little for an update


	2. Chapter 2

 

   Dawn greeted her warmly, and she spat in its face. Waking up was the last thing she wanted to do. She had slept barely a a few hours, and the revelations of the night before were still on her mind. She had been born the year Robert’s Rebellion ended, and she was too young to remember the Greyjoy Rebellion. She had only ever known peace, and summer and spring at that. Any winter she had lived through had been in infancy, and even then of what she had been told light snows were as harsh as it got at Highgarden. The North was cold already, what terrors awaited the winter?

   She lay on the bed, trying not to think. Septa Nysterica had tried to teach her how to clear her mind but she’d never gotten the hang of it. There was always something knocking at the doors of her thoughts, and that morning it was the apparent inevitablity of war, her betrothal and her grandmother. Olenna was not one who did things without House Tyrell in mind, and surely marrying the Crown Prince was in the best interests? She (rather unsuccessfully) shook out those thoughts, instead turning to her wardrobe.

   She’d brought a dozen-and-a-half or so of her Highgarden dresses, the thin samite chemises of Myrish lace and ivory silk and seed pearls. Loras had told her not to bring them, that they would only make her feel homesick, but she couldn’t do it. It was foolish, but they were a part of her. She wasn’t a Stark, she never would be a Stark, no matter how many men her grandmother married her off to. She was Tyrell of Highgarden who could lounge in the sun and wear dresses that bare her shoulders and donned celadon and pear and chartreuse and olive and mint and absinthe and _emerald_ and _gold_. Margaery Tyrell didn’t wear thick furs, and if she _did_ wear fur it would be a pretty fur-hemmed gown and not the raggedy wear of the North, nor did she wear greys and blacks and whites. Margaery Tyrell was not monotone.

   She chose a grey-green velvet-lined brocade, one that she wouldn’t be seen dead in back home but looked decent against the cold walls of Winterfell. Her maid, a plump and homely red-haired Northerner with the unfortunate name of Ginger, babbled as she dressed her. Margaery thought of dismissing the girl but thought better of it; servants talk, and she needed to make good first impressions, so instead she smiled and acted the blushing maiden as the girl gushed about how pretty Margaery was.

   Loras knocked when she was dressed, and Ginger blushed as red as her hair when she opened the door before scurrying away to the kitchens. Loras picked up the hair brush by the vanity and say beside her on the bed. “Do you remember how you used to brush my hair? You and Megga and Elinor would corner me and try all your new braids on me.”

   Margaery smiled, happy for some distraction. “Oh, yes. Remember that time you pulled Alla’s hair when she tried to cut yours? She cried for days, wouldn’t stop worrying she was going to go bald.”

   “And that time I tried to fight you all off and socked Elinor in the jaw. Mother and Father were furious, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen Willas laugh so much.” He put the hair brush down and began a simple braid. “I was never really angry. Well, I was when Alla tried to shear me like a sheep, but I didn’t hate it so much. I missed it, when I went to Storm’s End. I suppose...I suppose I just want you to know that I’m not going to forget you. I’ll visit you whenever I can, and mayhaps one day you can come to Storm’s End. We’ll always be brother and sister, no matter what.” He turned her around and wiped a tear from her cheek. She hadn’t even realised she was crying.

   “Loras, what have we gotten into?” She fell into his arms, the tears finally flowing free. “Gods, Loras, I just want to go home.” She wept, though she knew it was pitiful. She had not cried truthfully in years, yet it all came pouring out as Loras hugged her tight.

  “Hey, hey. It’s going to be okay. If you truly want to leave I will...well, I’ll kidnap you and we shall make the journey back before anyone even notices you’re missing. And when they do you will already be in the Highgarden rose maze and we all know only a Tyrell can make it through there. I promise. And we’ll live our lives out in that stupid maze. Oh gods, I never know what to say when people cry, much less you Margie.” She laughed a little, choking on the salty tears. “Seriously though. They can’t force your hand, and from what I’ve seen of them I doubt they’re the type to...I don’t know...kill us for breaking a betrothal.”

  “It’s not just that, Loras. What if grandmother is right? What if there is to be war?” Loras looked away before returning to her.

  “Whatever happens, I promise I’ll protect you. And grandmother was right. At least, for a little bit of her stupid plan. The North is the safest place for you to live out the war. Who’s going to get through? The Neck forbids anyone, and the Freys answer to the Tullys and who is married to a Tully? So really the only people who could harm you are the other Northern houses and their fierce loyalty to House Stark is so well known even _I_ know it.”

  “I don’t want to marry.” She blurted. “I thought I did but…I don’t know. What if I make the wrong choice? Our survival is banking on this. Joffrey, Robb...Whoever I wed, it would turn the tide of war. I just want to go _home_.” At the last word her voice cracked and she broke again, her tears dampening Loras’ doublet again.

  “Look, there’s no point worrying about that now. Grandmother has it in control, she always does-“

  “Loras, _I’m_ always in control. _Always_. But I’m not now.”

  “I know, I know, but it’s going to be okay. We’ll figure this out.” They were interrupted by a sharp knock. Margaery quickly wiped her eyes and fixed her dress.

   “Lady Margaery? Ser Loras? Breakfast is ready in the dining hall.” Called Ginger through the walls. Her brother gave her a half-armed hug and gave her hand a comforting squeeze.  

   “Of course.” She called back, her voice as cheery as she could make it. 

 

   

   Margaery could tell they had made a breakfast to perhaps impress her, so she made sure to sound as appreciative and satisfied as she could as she broke her fast, but the array of delicately salted quail’s eggs, thinly sliced hams and fried bread only made her feel ill. She made sure not to acknowledge meeting Robb, Jon and Theon the night prior, settling to act like it didn’t matter. She stroked her brooch, caressing the dewdrop pearls, a still calm washing over her. She tok a sip of wine before turning to Catelyn.

   “I was wondering if the King’s visit would change the wedding plans.” She said, before cursing her wording. Too blunt.

   “Oh yes. I was going to ask Lady Olenna what she thought. We thought perhaps post-posing. I know a fortnight from now was what was planned, but His Grace should arrive within a week. Our wedding plans have been rather...well...disrupted. Though if you and your grandmother prefer, I’m sure the wedding can coincide with His Grace’s visit.” Margaery nodded, before taking a lengthy swig of wine. When dinner ended Septa Mordane, the Winterfell septa, asked if she would like to join Sansa and Arya’s sewing lessons. She agreed, saying she’d like nothing more. Like a liar.

   “Ah!” The septa scolded, turning over Arya’s work. “You need to work on your stitches. Blacksmith hands, girl.“ Arya’s eyes narrowed and she looked rather like she wanted to stick the sewing needle in Septa Mordane’s eye. “Ah, see the Lady Margaery’s stitches. Neat and small and see, not crooked. Perhaps we should have Septa Nysterica teach you.” Margaery could see the anger rolling off the Stark girl, and could not help but admire the child’s restraint. One of Sansa’s girlfriends, the steward’s whelp, whispered something in Sansa’s ear that made the girl playfully hush her, something about a horse. That made Margaery angry. No mere servant had the right to speak so about a highborn lady, and so she turned to Arya.

   “Lady Arya. I heard you ride horses better than anyone in the North, would you perhaps take me along? I have not had the chance to see the surrounding area of Winterfell, I would very much like to.” Arya eyed her with suspicion before nodding.

   “Ok.” Margaery rather liked the face Sansa’s steward’s whelp made.

 

 

   “You ride good.” Said Arya. She sat atop a chestnut horse, her direwolf following close behind. Margaery’s own horse was smoke-grey plafrey that Willas had gifted her as a weddding gift before she left. “That way is the wolfswood.  It’s called that because you can hear the wolves howling all through the night.”

   “I had never seen a wolf before you direwolves.” Admitted Margaery. “My brother had some hounds that were part-wolf, but they were not so...large as your wolves.” She turned to Arya and smiled wickedly. “Race you over to those trees over there?” Arya beamed and sped off before Margaery could say _go._ As Margaery galloped in pursuit, she could not help but admit she liked Arya. She spoke freely, so unlike southron girls did. Margaery beat her to the set of trees, earning herself a stuck-out-tongue from Arya, who quickly covered her mouth, as if thinking of what her mother would say if she knew she’d done such a thing to Robb’s southern soon-to-be wife.

   “I would have beat you.” Said Arya defencively. “You cheated, you made Nymeria make me go slower.”

   “You had a head start!” Laughed Margaery. 

   “You’re a lady,” Cried Arya with crossed arms, a crossed face and a confused tone. “But you’re not so mean and prissy.”

   Margaery laughed once more. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” 

   “Arya!” Called out a voice. Robb cantered forward. “Did you just call Lady Margaery mean and prissy?”

   “No, I said she wasn’t. What do you want, Robb? Margaery and I were racing.”

   “I could see. I saw she beat you.” Arya stuck her tongue out and Robb smiled. “Well, Mother wants you to go back. She’s having a dress made for when the King visits.”  

   Arya groaned. “Why do I have to wear a dress? What does the king care what I wear?”

   Robb frowned. “Arya, he’s the King. It’s polite. Now go, before I have to drag you.” Arya made a dramatic sigh before galloping off, Nymeria closely her tails. “I’m sorry for her attitude.”

   “Oh no,” Margaery replied. “It’s quite alright. I think she’s sweet.”

   Robb laughed. “Sweet! I have never once in my life heard Arya be called sweet. Father says she has the Wolf Blood, like my Uncle Brandon and Aunt Lyanna. He says Rickon has it too.”

   “Wolf blood?”

   “Father says it runs in the blood of some Starks. Adventurousness, aggressiveness, impulsiveness, wildness.”

   “Do you have it?”

   Robb looked away and paused. “No, I don’t think so. I’m too Tully.” 

   There was a silence. Margaery didn’t know what to do. Was she supposed to seduce him? Repulse him? “I...I’m sorry for last night. I shouldn’t have invaded your godswood.”

   “Oh no, I should apologise. I-I don’t know how much you heard, but I know Theon said some awful things. And the godswood really is welcome to all, you weren’t invading it. I suppose it’ll be yours too, when you become Lady of Winterfell.” The when made her heart skip.

   “Yes, I suppose so.” She fidgeted with her palfrey’s mane. 

   Robb broke the silence after a minute of it. “I...”

   “Yes?” She interrupted, too quickly.”

    “I...would...would you like to see the godswood? Properly this time. I can perhaps she you around it.”

   “Oh. Oh, yes. Of course.” They rode to Winterfell at a light trot in silence, and though it was somewhat awkward she knew talking would be worse. As they rode through the gates they were greeted by Theon, who looked at her with hungry eyes that she did not appreciate. Robb helped her from her horse though she did not need him to, and when their hands touched she blushed. She didn’t like this, not one bit. She was always in control, always. If she _wanted_ to be some blushing maiden then she would be, but right now what she wanted was to barge to her grandmother’s room and scream at her. Instead she took Robb’s offered arm (it stiffened, just like it had yesterday) and they departed for the godswood.

   It was empty, but she could not help but feel the prescence of _something_. She had always prayed to the Seven, had been born under than, named under them, raised under them but she’d never _felt_ them. She’d never felt the Maiden’s hands guiding her through womanhood or the maternal arms of the Mother embracing her, but here in this godswood she could feel the presence of something, whether it be the old gods or the millenia of Starks who had lived and died here.

   A low breeze blew through the trees, and the swaying branches looked so much like hands. Robb started to speak, describing the heart’s tree and the lake and the birds but all she could hear were the gods and wolves howling in her head in a tongue she could not understand and yet she knew what they were saying. She fell to her knees, the cold and dewy grass staining and dampening her dress but she could not care because she could barely think, barely breathe, and Robb was beside her asking what had happened, what was wrong, calling for a maester, and then Loras was beside her and he was shaking her. She looked up first to Loras’ gold eyes and then to Robb’s blue and the world turned black.

 

 

   She woke with Olenna beside her, sipping a glass of Arbour red and penning a letter. “Grandmother?” She rasped, sitting up.

   “Hm. Next time you’re alone with that boy try not to faint.”

   “What happened?”

   Loras handed her a mug of hot honey lemon tea. “You fainted. You’ve been out the last few hours. Here, drink.” She did so, groaning as the condition slipped down her mouth and burned her throat. 

   She turned to her grandmother. “What are we going to do?”

   “About the fainting, or the fact war is about to rear its ugly head?”

   “ _Grandmother_.”

   Olenna sighed, setting down her pen. “I’m not sending you to the Lannisters, that’s what I’m firm on. I vehemently refuse it. I don’t care that their blonde arses sit on that goddamned throne, I don’t care how much power they have, I’m not risking it. Your father would want to, I’m sure, but your father is an idiot. And anyway has yet to fully brew, we only really have inklings. Truely, It could all end up fine, but let’s not deceive ourselves. We’ll stay here. We’ve already made the betrothal, the North is essentially impenetrable, the Starks are predictable. It’s our best bet in keeping our standing and keeping us safe. Just...marry the boy and stay in Winterfell. Loras is still going to King’s Landing, will still be going back to Storm’s End. He will report what he needs to report. I’m going to send a letter to Garlan and Willas and we can see what they think.” Olenna took her hand and gave it a squeeze. “We’re going to be alright, we’re going to survive.”

 

 

 

   That night she lay awake, staring at the ceiling. She had an objective now, she had her duty, but as she watched a spider crawl across the wall, she wondered if she’d ever been in control. Had she always lived to the whim of her parents, her grandmother? She knew they‘d had similar goals; further House Tyrell’s power, further the legacy, but had she ever truly chosen to do something on her own? Perhaps there was wanting to be Queen, but hadn’t those ideals been planted by Mace and Alerie and Olenna? 

   She stepped out of bed as the spider fell into a pitcher of Arbour red. She picked it out and opened her bedroom door, keeping the spider cupped in her hands as she walked through the halls.

   “I don’t know, ok?” Robb. His voice was recognisable now, and her curiosity got the better of her. “I just...I don’t know. She seems nice but Grey Wind growls at her whenever they’re together, and well...aren’t Tyrells supposed to be manipulative?”

   “Come on. Who cares if she’s manipulative? You’re getting a nice ass and a tight fit.” The sound of a slap rang through her head. “Hey! I’m just being candid.”

   “You don’t need to be a dick, Theon, or maybe Jon and I will uninvited you to our card games.”

   “Oh, the horror!” He teased, and she heard another slap.

   “Robb, is it not your duty though? Winter is coming, and the Tyrells have valuable harvests stocked.” _Jon_.

   “I know I have to, but...I don’t know, you weren’t there. She seemed repulsed in the godswood, horrorfied or something. I don’t quite want to marry a girl who doesn’t want to marry me.”

   “Oh come of it, Robb. You’ll come to like her.”

   Jon again. “Your father came to love Lady Catelyn, didn’t he?”

   “I don’t know if I want to marry. Not her specifically, I just...I want to marry of my own choice. I’ve had no choice in this betrothal, at all. Maybe she’s lovely, maybe in another life I’d have come to love her, but...I don’t know. Whatever. I’ll not disrespect and dishonour her by abandoning the betrothal.” She slunk down, not bothering to listen anymore, dropping the little spider as she did so. 

 

 

   She woke the next morning in her bed, having walked back to her room the night before. She had finally fallen asleep only an hour before Ginger woke her, and she used powder to hide the bags under her eyes. She braided her hair simply in a knot she’d seen some of the Northern ladies wear, before donning a pale olive wool dress. She clasped a gold band around her neck, one with a small emerald handing at her throat, before heading down. She declined breakfast, heading to the godswood. She was going to conquer this.

   That same feeling of pure anxiety returned as she stepped in but she continued nonetheless, settling by the heart tree. The godswood at Highgarden was far less solemn and a place to read and draw and laugh and play. As a child she would climb the Three Singers, so high her parents would have to send one of her brothers up to fetch her. The last time she had been theee was on Elinor’s nameday, when they’d had a luncheon in the godswood. It had been fun and delicious, pretty cakes and tea and tart fruits in sweet cream. At the time she had not known it would be her last, and she wished she could go back and see it even just one last time.

   She lay a hand of the Winterfell heart tree. She’d heard the stories of the children of the forest communicating through the faces, and though she never believed them she couldn’t help but wished she could. To see Highgarden once more, even from all the way in the North was a dream she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to experience.

   Slowly, the screams of the ghosts of Winterfell dulled, muted by the ripples of the lake, the rustling of the leaves and the chirping of the birds. A little snow shrike, grey and plump, flew down to the soft grass. There were some blotches of blood on its feathers, probably from a recent kill. She had heard stories of wargs and skinchangers and the wilful and fanciful part of her wished she could slip into the body of that little bird. The shrike hopped closer to her, before flying onto her gloved finger. She watched it watch her, how it’s head tilted slightly as if confused and how it’s beady eyes seemed to see right through her. She was about to get up and place it on a branch when it pecked her finger and flew off. She swore under her breath, looking around for what had startled the creature.

   It was Grey Wind. She could feel her heart quicken. From where she sat the beast was taller than her, and its yellow eyes studied her as intelligently as any human. Instead of growling as it had both previous times, the beast lay itself at her feet, its head in her lap. She was surprised to say the least, but there was a small measure of comfort too. She was reminded of Willas  and his hounds back home, and she tentatively held out a hand to pet him. He did not retaliate instead letting out a low and gentle bark as she scratched behind his ear.

   “Gods, Grey Wind.” She whispered. “What am I to do?” The direwolf did not reply. There were a few beats of silence, broken when a twig broke. She looked up to see Robb wearing an expression she could not decipher.

   “He likes you.” They way he said it did not sound like a compliment, but a bemused observation.

   “I’m glad.” She replied, combing her fingers through Grey Wind’s fur. “I don’t think he did before.”

   “No.” Said Robb, firmly yet still confused. “He didn’t.” He sat beside her, a hand brushing against his wolf. “Are you feeling better, my lady? From yesterday?”

   “Yes, thank you. I just...I don’t know.”

   Silence fell over the godswood, broken by the Grey Wind’s even breaths. “I...I must admit my...confusion to you being here. I was not under the impression you liked it here.”

   “I am learning to. Our godswood back home is not so solemn.” She did not know she was crying until a tear fell upon Grey Wind’s fur.

   “Are you all right, my lady? Should I call a maester?” Robb asked, concern laced through his words. She tried to answer, tried to compose herself, but she could not. This was the second time she had cried in two days, she was growing weak. She could already hear Olenna’s scolding words, her father’s disappointment, and those only made her cry more.

   “I’m sorry.” She choked between sobs. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” She did not feel herself at all. She was no crying maiden, not unless she wanted to. She had mastered the art of both hiding her tears and crying at will, yet here she was weeping in full view of the Gods and an outsider. She flinched as Robb awkwardly wrapped an arm around her, and he pulled away.

   “I...would you like me to find Loras? Or your grandmother?”

   “No!” She said too quickly, too loudly. “I mean, no. I...I’m so sorry. I just...I miss home.” Her voice cracked. Who was this girl who was speaking? Everything in Margaery’s brain was telling her to shut up and leave, that her grandmother had given her a task, but a stupid part of her continued to speak. “I mean no insult to your family, nor Winterfell. I just...I miss Highgarden. All of it. My brothers, my cousins, the gardens, everything.” Robb handed her a handkerchief embroiled with a wolf, and she wiped her eyes.

   There was an uncomfortable silence, exacerbated by her sniffling. Robb spoke after a lengthy pause. “I know you don’t want to do this. This marriage, or whatever. You don’t know me, you don’t know the North. I don’t fault you for that. Winterfell is a hardened place. My Lady mother, though she has been here near fifteen years, still finds it difficult. If you wanted to break the betrothal-”

   “Oh no!” She said finally, interrupting his rambling. “I would not insult you or your house like that. It’s not that I do not wish to wed you, or anything of the sort. I just...I don’t quite know. I’m sorry. I’ll...I’ll leave.”

   “No!” He cries, before blushing and lowering his voice. “I just...I thought maybe I could show you the glass gardens. I’m sure they’re not so grand as the gardens of Highgarden but...maybe they’ll be nice?” She nods shyly, standing up carefully so as not to upset Grey Wind. She does not take Robb’s arm this time, instead walking by his side easily. 

   “I...I’m sorry for acting in such in way.” She says finally. “It was gravelly improper.”

   Robb smiles. “I do not fault you for having feelings.” _Having feelings_. She’d always been told never to show them, to hide them behind walls of lies and manipulation and cunning. 

   “Well...I apologise anyway. I know I’ve been acting rather odd these past few days. I shouldn’t have been so...open with someone i’ve only known for, well, a few days.” She lowered her head.

   “Really my lady, there’s no need for apologies. I suppose it is me who should be, I know I’ve been...a bit cold.” 

   She paused for a moment. “I admit I was told Northerners were all cold as ice, or savages.”

   Robb laughed, and Margaery realised she rather liked the sound. “I suppose we can be, at times. I know Arya and Rickon are quite the little savages, and my father can appear cold if you don’t know him. I just hope...I just hope you know we’re not deliberately trying to appear so. We don’t hate you, or anything like that.” By now they’re at the glass gardens, and Margaery cannot help but admire it. Robb opens to glass doors, and Margaery emits a gasp before she can hide it. It’s warm inside, still cooler than she’s used to but it truly is nearly as warm as it is back in Highgarden. The light from the sun outside shines brighter in here and if Margaery closed her eyes she could imagine herself at home, the sun shining in her bare shoulders. 

   The plants are equally beautiful. She’s drawn to the bushels of delicate blue winter roses, a species that don’t grow in abundance back home. She’s only seen them a few times, as Highgarden boasts more yellows, oranges, pinks and reds. Robb cuts one of the blooms with some shears on a wooden table, pulling the thorns off and playing the bloom behind her ear.

   “Do you like it?” He asks, somewhat hesitantly. 

   “Yes.” She whispers, so quietly yet so _truly_. There are other colours of roses, ones she’s more familiar with and in those moments she well and truly is transported back home. “Thank you for showing this to me.” 

   “I’m glad you like it.” He smiles, before looking down. “I suppose it’s silly for me to ask, but do you think we can be friends? It would be nice to know you before getting married. I know most nobles are met and wed on the same night but since we have more time it would mayhaps be nice...”

   She looks up at him, into his cool blue eyes that are as deep as the Mander. “Of course. Friends.”

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Margaery’s acting kinda OOC, but I hope I’m getting across that her whole worldview’s kinda been shaken. Also we’ve had no POV chapters from her in the books so I can defend my bad character writing with that.
> 
> Also, I hope Robb trusting Margaery there at the end made enough sense. We know the direwolves are pretty good at judging character, and (in the way I wrote it), Robb sees his trusted direwolf acting less hostile towards Margaery which was supposed to show how she doesn’t really have her mask of manipulation on. Hope it doesn’t just seem like BOOM he trusts her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i use the word smile way too much lmao, also be prepared for a bit of a dip in quality

 

   She soon leaned being friends with Robb Stark was not so arduous as she had worried it to be. The next day after their agreement he took her riding, and Lord Eddard gave them leave to the wolfswood, so long as they stayed close to the edge. It was a longer journey than she’d thought, but it was worth it when they arrived. The woods were very Northern (who would have thought) but they were not so different from the woods back home. There were trees the same as home: oaks, soldier pines, hawthorn, evergreen, chestnuts, beech, firs, sentinels, black brier, ash, beech, along with ironwoods and even a few weirwoods. They hawked a while, and Margaey was satisfied with the impressed looks Robb gave her when he saw her prowess.

   The second day there was a light summer snow, and he showed her the Winterfell library. It was more open than she’d assumed it would be, less dingy and dark than her imagination had led her to believe. She spoke to Maester Luwin of Highgarden and Oldtown, and she did not flinch nor did she revel in a victory when Robb held her hand. 

   The third day, the day before the King’s arrival, Robb invited her to watch their archery lesson. Though it was not entirely unusual for a lady to be proficient in the bow and arrow, it was still uncommon. Willas had taught Margaery the sport when her parents disallowed the master-at-arms from teaching her. She watched the lesson with bright eyes, clapping when necessary and scolding the older boys for laughing at Bran’s lack of talent. It was rather fun, if she said so herself, and she thought she would not mind these people as family.

 

   She stood beside her brother and grandmother as the King and his retinue came to greet the Starks. They left a sour taste in her mouth, for a part of her still ached for the kind of power that radiated off the Queen. Cersei herself looked to have a sour taste in her mouth despite her smile, and Margaery hated her instantly.

   She spotted the Prince next, and the rumours were correct. He _was_ rather pretty (though in truth she did not find him personally attractive, she had never liked blondes), but his mouth curled into a smirk that she could see had charmed Sansa but it did not convince her. The King himself was a large man, larger than anyone Margaery had ever seen. Both Olenna and Loras had told her of him, of how the years of idle indolence had turned the handsome Baratheon man into a fat, whore-mongering alcoholic who could barely see past his nose. 

   He greeted the Starks warmly, before moving to Margaery’s family. She notes the way his eyes study her figure, the way he lingers on her bosom. “You must be the betrothed Tyrell girl. You’re a lucky man, Robb.” He laughs, and Margaery smiles as well as she can. “Lady Olenna, a pleasure as always.” He does not wait for her reply, moving next to Loras. “Aye, I’ve met you. Damn good tourneyman.” He slaps Loras on the back, and Margaery can see the fire in his eyes. He has not made his hatred for his lover’s brother very much a secret to her. The King walks back over to Eddard, where together they head to the crypts. Margaery watches the way Cersei’s mouth curls, the same way her son’s does. 

 

 

   The feast is sprawling, and Margaery wishes she were sat with her brother. Instead she is between Robb and Sansa, pretending to care and ounce to what Princess Myrcella is saying. She liked Robb’s company well enough, but Seven Hells was Myrcella dull. She knew she should be buttering up to the girl, royal contacts were always important, but having to listen to Myrcella drone on about utter drivel was too high a price. Banners line the walls; Stark, Tyrell, Baratheon and Lannister. The King had since left the dais, preferring to roam about his subjects, singing along to their bawdy drinking songs, a buxom serving wench on his knee. Margaery has never seen such a disregard of decorum, much less from someone as high up as the King himself. She excused herself curtly from the table, slinking away to sit beside a rather drunk Loras.

   “This is awful.” He hissed. “Renly worships Robert. Well, he _used_ to worship the man his brother _used_ to be. I never saw it. What I _did_ see was Robert belittling Renly over his being unmarried and never in the company of women.”

   Margaery lay a hand on her brother’s arm. “Hush, Loras. Words carry, even when the room is filled with wine and caterwauling.”

   Loras’ eyes narrowed. “It’s not as if i’m saying I like his cock up my a-” She elbowed him in the ribs just as her betrothed walked over. Loras rolled his eyes and moved further down the table.

   “Are you quite alright, my lady? I...I was not sure if you left because of another fainting spell.” She suspected that was not his true intentions, but she smiled nonetheless.

   “Oh, no. I shan’t be fainting anytime soon. I just wanted to speak to my brother.” She motioned to his empty seat. “Come, sit. Our table is just as merry the dais, and our cups flow with Arbour gold.” He sat down slightly hesitantly, before accepting a cup of wine. The way he held the goblet told her he was rather virginal when it came to alcohol, and she could not help but suppress a smile.

   He took a long sip, before turning back to her. “I must admit, part of the reason I came here was because I think my sister is quite enamoured with the Prince. She has been gushing for hours, It was giving me a headache.” Margaery laughed.

   “Aye, I saw it too. Perhaps ours will not be the only betrothal come Winterfell this year.” Robb blushed, and though Margaery did not want to admit it, the sight made her rather giddy. Again, she was becoming some swooning maiden against her will.

   “I mislike it.” He said, after another gulp of wine. “I don’t trust the Baratheon boy.” _Lannister boy_ , she nearly corrected.

   “Every brother feels that way. Why, if I had not found you so agreeable I don’t doubt Loras would have misliked you.”

   “I am so agreeable?” He said with a smirk and cocked eyebrow.

   “More like drunk.” She laughed again, plucking a grape from one o father trays. “But yes. These past few days as friends have been enjoyable.” And they had been, that was no lie. 

   He smiled, though more solemn and serious. “I am glad, really. I don’t like how we are forced to wed people we don’t even know. It’s rather unfair. I understand it fundamentally, but...” He trailed off as the King walked over, though perhaps trudge or tramp were better describers. They both made to stand and bow, but the King waved his hand. He was very deep in his cups, sweat dripping from his forehead and his face as red as the Lannister banners.

   “Robb, my boy!” He chortled, slapping him on the back as he sat down, eyeing a slender serving girl.

   Margaery gave one of her winning smiles. “Your Grace, it is a great honour.”

   “And you must be the Lady Margaery. It’s good to see you youngsters getting along before the wedding. Though I suppose it’s the bedding you’re excited for!” He laughed once more and Margaery kept her smile, though she could feel Robb’s discomfort beside her.

   “I will be glad to wed Robb. It is a good match, and he is a good man.”

   Robert nodded wisely. “Aye, you’re a smart girl. Damn pity First Night’s been abolished, mayhaps I’d have thrown out any sense and claimed my rights.” He laughed heartily, so much so he did not notice the way the table seemed to quieten. Margaery watched her brother’s knuckles whiten, a few seats down. Margaery clenched her jaw but continued to smile, and she felt Robb’s discomfort turn to anger. He left then, back to the serving wench and the wine, and Margaery had to restrain herself from glaring. She had been the recipient of such words, such looks, ever since she had flowered and probably even before that but to hear _that_ to her  _face_ made her blood boil. She fingered her brooch, as she knew it was the only way to stop herself from hitting someone.

   “We’re having the wedding after the King leaves.” Robb said coldly.

   “Good.” She replied, bringing her goblet to her lips and satisfied by the look of surprise and admiration that Robb gives her.

 

 

   When she retired from the feast it was near midnight, and the late hours and wine had warmed her enough to loosen her tongue. She walked beside Robb through the godswood, arms linked, and it’s as if his touch has erased the gods’ judgement. They laugh about something she won’t remember in the morning and she feels happy, for the first time since she came.

   She halted at the heart tree, laying a hand on the cool trunk. “We will marry here, won’t we?” 

   Robb nods. “Yes. It’s traditional. Thousands of generations of Starks have wed here, and we will add to its numbers.” She thought of everything she could say, and settled for silence before hesitantly taking Robb’s hand. 

   “I...” She laced her fingers with his, minutely aware of their closeness. “I’m glad it is you I am marrying.” She pulled her hand from the tree, settling it on his jaw. She had to stand on her toes to reach him, and even then she only barely brushed his lips. She pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, softer than she’d ever done before. He looked a little dazed, as if uncertain of what had happened. She stood back down, unsure of what to say next. She did not need to reply, as her name echoed through the godswood. She turned, spotting Loras just over the way. She kissed Robb once more, harder and more intensely, before curtsying and hastening to her brother. Loras gave her a look when she reached him and she returned it with a playful smack. She looked back as she strode away, locking eyes with Robb as she did so, before quickly looking away.

   As she lays down to sleep that night, a realisation dawns on her that makes the bile rise in her throat. He really _had_ been an easy conquest.

 

  

 

   “You made quick work of that Stark boy.” Says her grandmother over luncheon. “I’m glad of it. The sooner you are wed, the sooner you are safe.” Margaery buttered her bread so angrily it split, and she swore under her breath. “Gods child, what has gotten into you?” She dropped her knife and the unsalvageable bread, storming out of the room with Olenna and Loras’ protests in the back of her mind.

   She loved her grandmother. She always had, and she always would, but she could not help but see her in a new light. Had she too been manipulated by the Queen of Thorns? Were all her ideals, all her dreams, her goals, were they all hers, or were they House Tyrells? Should she care? Their words, the ones ingrained in her mind since birth; growing strong. It meant to sow seeds so that in a century House Tyrell would not be a footnote, it meant planting your roots, it meant branching out, It meant being only one rose in a bush of family.

   She found herself in the glass gardens. It was empty, thank the gods, and she seated herself on the stone and marble bench. Amongst the greenery she should feel at one yet all she felt was an outsider. She plucked a blackberry from one of the bushels, rolling it in her palm as it stained her fingers. The juice ran down her wrist as she popped the berry in her mouth, the sweetness and tartness mulling together. It tasted of disappointment.

   She could not stand this place any longer. She left swiftly, her feet walking her to the godswood of their own violation. She sat beside one the pools, her back against a cool rock. She still felt that interloper coldness, but as she swirled her hand in the warm pools she grew content.

   “My Lady?” She looked up to see Robb, and she smiled. His blue eyes were a welcome sight. He sat beside her, and before she could think better of it she leaned against him, her head in the crook of his neck. His muscles tightened at first, but he relaxed against her.

   “Distract me.” She asked simply.  He seemed to understand, and she was glad. She did not want to talk.

   “I spoke to Father. They’d already planned to postpone, but His Grace asked Father to be his Hand of the King.” Margaery took a sharp breath, and she hoped Robb did not notice. “So we can marry when His Grace leaves, only it will mean Father probably won’t be there. But everyne else will, and your grandmother and brother if they wish to stay. Is that alright?”

   She nodded absentmindedly. “I don’t mind, I suppose. I just...the bedding ceremony. The Mad King made the same First Night comments at the wedding of Lord Tywin and Lady Joanna, and it is said he took...certain liberties. I don’t...I don’t know. But I don’t want your family to miss your wedding.”

   Robb smiled. “I’m sure he won’t mind. Father is just glad I am happy with you.”

   “Then we shall wed after His Grace leaves.” She leaned to kiss his cheek, only he seemed to have the same idea and their lips met. She thought she should perhaps not accept it, but then Robb’s hands were under her chin and at her waist and hers were at his neck and chest and Seven Hells, this was the best feeling in the world.

   “Robb!” Called a high and horrified voice, and the parted abruptly. On the other side of the pool stood a scandalised Sansa, amused Arya, snickering Theon and smug Jon.

   “How are you all?” She smiled as Robb hid his face in her hair.

   “We were looking for Robb.” Answered Jon, a thoroughly too-satisfied smirk on his face. “Lady Catelyn wanted to speak to him about Father going South, but I see he is occupied. Arya, run along and tell your mother-”

   “No, no.” Robb sighed, and Margaery could barely hide her merriment. “I’ll go. And I swear to all the gods, you breathe a word of this and I’ll tell Father all the sordid things _you’ve_  all done.”

   “Oh, so this was _sordid_?” Says Theon, earning him a punch to the arm.

 

 

   She sauntered jauntily to her room, and as she walked in she spotted an envelope on her vanity. She broke the Tyrell wax sigil, expecting perhaps a letter from Willas, but she was instead greeted by her father’s messily elegant scrawl.

 

_Margaery,_

_Having recieved the news of both Lord Arryn’s untimely death and His Grace’s prescence in Winterfell, it is clear what must be done._

_I know how much you wish to be queen, and this is your chance. Seduce the eldest Baratheon boy, and no doubt the King will be willing to set aside that silly betrothal._

_This is your duty, Margaery, your destiny. You will be queen and the history books will remember your service to House Tyrell. Isn’t that what you want?_

_Signed,_

_Lord Mace of the Most Noble House of Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden, Defender of the Marches, High Marshal of the Reach and Warden of the South._

 

   Margaery promptly dropped the letter to the ground, panic washing over her again. Gods, did everyone in her life have some agenda for her? She picked it back up, hands trembling, before shoving it in the vanity draw. She could not stand this, any of this. She used to thrive among it all; the lies, the cunning, the petty ambition, but before she had not realised how deep she was in her family’s choices. 

 

   

 

   The days bled into weeks, and before she knew it Lord Stark, Sansa, Arya and Bran were preparing to go South, Jon preparing for the Wall and the preparation for her wedding were well underway. She did not see her betrothed much in those weeks, for she was too busy being fitted for wedding dresses, having tedious luncheons with Sansa and Myrcella and avoiding her grandmother as much as possible. She was not so upset at this development, because she was not sure if she could look at Robb without seeing her family’s expectations.

   The weeks had their toll though, and with every remark by her grandmother, every rememberance of her father’s letter, every glance at Joffrey or Cersei or Robert or _Robb,_  the flame inside her would grow and grow until her brain was burning with confusion and anger.

   It was one unfortunate day, a fortnight or so after the King’s arrival, she was sat angrily in Loras’ room. She had recieved another letter, again from her father, telling her to work quickly lest the Prince fall for the Stark girl’s charms. She had burned it as soon as she read it, delighting in the way the flames danced across her father’s words.

   “I’m so sick of everything, Loras. So sick of it. I’m sick of people telling me what to do. Grandmother, Father, everyone. It is all ‘Margaery, do this for our house’, ‘Margaery, do this or else’ and I am dreadful sick of it.”

   “It is how the world works, Margaery. We are extensions of our House.”

   “I know! I know, I understand. I love our House, I want to further it, I want to see our family succeed but I want to do it on my own terms. I don’t want to be _told_ to seduce Joffrey. I want to make that decision myself.”

   Loras shifted awkwardly. “Well...our family does this because they love us, they love you. Grandmother wants you safe, so she gave you the North. Father wants you to achieve your dream as queen, so he wants to give you Joffrey.”

   “But they didn’t _ask_ me! Grandmother never told me that goddamned  _war_  was on the horizon. She never asked if I wanted to marry Robb, just that I was to. And father! Father knows not what I want. Mayhaps I want the throne, but I want to get it myself. I don’t want to be told that I am to seduce Joffrey. Am I...are my words not clear? I am not trying to be difficult. I just... _gods._ ” She fell onto the bed with a huff, before sighing. “I think I like Robb, Loras. I would be glad to wed him, but if Grandmotehr has just...whatever.” She sat back up, massaging her temples. She eyed the half-written note that lay on his desk, the one she had interrupted him writing. “If that’s for Renly, tell him I said hello. If it’s for Father, tell him I’m to wed Robb in a months’ time.” 

   She stood up, and Loras gave her a one-armed hug. “I am glad you are happy, sister. We shall celebrate.” He moved to pour her a glass of wine, only the pitcher was empty. “Damn. I’ll check grandmother’s room, no doubt she has half the Arbour stocked there.” He left with a chuckle. She sat back down on the bed, before eyeing the letter that still lay on the table. Loras had turned it over while they were talking and it had peaked her curiosity. 

 

    _Dearest Rhaelle,_

_Mayhaps your little plan may work. Your brother has taken a lusting to Rosaline, he said so at the feast. I don’t know if he fancies her like the she-wolf, but there is time yet. In truth I hate how he looks at her and I hate this plan but I know it’s what Rosaline has wanted since she was young so I’m sure she will be happy._

_It’s quite clear any feelings your brother had for Ceryse have long since passed, if he ever did have them. It will not be difficult to drive a wedge between them. She rather hates him too, perhaps that could be helpful?_

_I still think you would be far better than that fat old drunkard you’re forced to call your brother. I’d much prefer Rosaline in your hands than his._

_Rosaline seems a little taken with her betrothed, but I don’t doubt she will be overjoyed when we tell her._

_Yours always,_

_Lyonel_

 

   She dropped the letter, her hands shaking. She recognised the names well enough. Rhaelle for Renly, Lyonel for Loras, Rosaline for Margaery, _your brother_ must be Robert, Ceryse must be Cersei...was everyone in her damned family trying to decide what she was to do? Loras walked back in, a smile still on his face, though it ceased when he saw the letter on the ground. “Margaery-”

   “Is this some sick jest?”

   “I wrote that before you confided-”

   “You meant...you meant to...you schemed to whore me out to Robert?”

   “No! No, Margaery, I’d never. I just...I had thought you wanted-”

   “What I want is my brother to be honest! How could you do such things behind my back? I’m...” She trailed off, too angered to continue. “I shall see you at supper.” She said carefully, before pushing past him through the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> letter ex machina lmao
> 
> also i hope margaery and robb’s relationship isn’t moving too fast. i didn’t want them to have any ‘love at first sight’ because it felt kinda unrealistic to their characters, and im trying to show how margaey’s shaken worldview has made her more vulnerable and therefore has attached herself to robb, a comfort. 
> 
> i also think that fandom forgets how young some of these characters are. as smart as they are, as broken as they are, as strong as they are, their ages still range from pre-pubescent children to at best mid-to-late teenagers (ignoring the adults, of course). it may be in a fantasy medieval world, but they’re going through puberty, still confused and angry and emotional, still young and unsure of the world.
> 
> by the way: this is going somewhere, there is a plot. i know it’s starting out slow. i have pacing issues in my writing, i’m working on fixing them.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we stan forced conflict

 

   Robb was a welcome distraction. “Oh come now my lady, you are jesting. Surely it cannot be. 1000 feet tall...”   
  
   “No! It is true, I assure you. It is the largest structure you could ever see, the largest in all of Westeros. And it is bigger than the Wall, I’m not exaggerating. Bigger even than Casterly Rock. I have been a few times, but only once have I been all the way the way the top. Willas took me, it was a year before his accident. I would have been...seven? Eight? I had always badgered him, begged him to show it to me. So he did, and we climbed all the way up. It took near a whole day, walking all those steps. I chickened out at least five times, but we kept going, because Willas wanted me to stop annoying him about it. By the time we got to the top the sun was setting and Robb...it is the most beautiful thing one can see. You could see for miles...with a Myrish far-eye you could probably even see Highgarden. Everything was lit in front of the violet sun rays...lord, it was heavenly. The boats rocking peacefully in the harbour, it all looks so small from so high up. And the Starry Sept! Why, if I hadn’t believed in a higher power before that, I truly did then. And then I looked straight down, and cried because I have a ridiculous fear of heights.”

   Robb laughed joyfully. “One day we must go, and we shall cure you of this fright.” He paused for a moment. “Are you scared of depth?”  
  
   “Pardon?”  
  
   “Depth, my lady. The deep of the underground.”  
  
   “Why, I suppose I’ve never thought to be scared of that.”  
  
   “Would you...would you like to see the crypts?” Margaery halted. Yes, she absolutely wanted to. It had been a curiosity of her’s, these Stark crypts. What was down there? It was said they went for miles, that one would lose themselves both physically and mentally if one was down to long. But she also knew how sacred they were to the Stark family, how important they were. If Robb were truly asking her, this was a monumental step in their relationship.

   A voice that sounded much like her grandmothher hissed in her ear. _Wed the Stark boy. Keep in on a leash. Wrap him around your finger._

   “I...yes.” She said, the words catching in her throat. “I would love to.” Robb nodded, extending his arm which she took gratefully. 

   She was no Stark, she knew that. The godswood did not welcome her, Winterfell was a dreary place, the wolves still growled when she came near. She was getting there, but still she could not take all that which made a Stark a Stark, and so she was anxious to step into these crypts.

   The steps were long and steep, and several times she thought she’d fall. Though the stair was narrow, Robb kept a steady hand and he thankfully did not mention how tightly she gripped his arm. By the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, the temperature had dropped considerably. She pulled her woollen cloak closer as her eyes adjusted to the low light. 

   The crypts were bathed in a softly warm light that cast long shadows on the tall walls. She could feel her insides pushing together; her heart, her lungs, her stomach...it was like a force was pushing them down to the depths of the crypts.

   “I’m sorry, this was a silly idea-” Stammered Robb.

   “No, no. I’m to marry you, I’ll come down here one day anyway. It might as well be today.” They continued down the hall, every footstep echoing through the crypt.

   Robb gave a running commentary. “There are mainly Brandons. Brandon is to House Stark like Leo and Garth are to House Tyrell. Brandon the Shipwright, who was named so for his love of the sea. His son, Brandon the Burner, who destroyed his father’s fleet when he died. We have not had a fleet since, I think mayhaps I will rebuild it. Or my brother could, and add his name to the Brandons. Brandon the Bad is next, not quite sure what he did, only that it was, well, bad. Brandon Ice-Eyes, who recaptured the Wolf’s Den. It used to be castle of a Stark cadet branch, only the Manderlys hold it now. I believe Brandon the Builder is much further down, but I would not take you. The further you go down in the crypts, the less likely you are to come back up. I’m sorry my lady, am I scaring you?” He paused and she smiled.

   “No, my lord. I’m just...fascinated.” 

   He smiled with relief, before continuing. “It is fascinating. Here-” He paused again. “Here is my closest family. Rickard, my grandfather, Brandon, my uncle and Lyanna, my aunt. Statues are normally only for the Lords, or Kings in antiquity, but my Father has statues made for his siblings. I think if...when my siblings die, I should like to have statues made for them. I would not want them relegated only to a tomb. Though likely Sansa will be buried in whichever castle she marries into, though I think Arya would want to be buried here.” He snapped out of his reverie, turning to her with an awkward smile. “Sorry for the rather...morbid outing.”

   “Morbid does not mean bad.” She patted his arm. “Thank you for sharing this with me, Robb.” She turned to the statues of Rickard, Brandon and Lyanna. They were imposing, yet peaceful and graceful in a way. “Will I be buried here, do you think?”

   “Well, I don’t know. If you wanted to, of course you will. You’d be a Stark, and here is a Stark’s place.” He said it like a mantra. “Though, you would still be a Tyrell, so if you wished you could be interred at Highgarden.” She supposed she wold not mind either. “It’s getting cold, and I’m sure I’m boring you.” They left the crypt in lighter spirits than they had entered.

   As they wandered the grounds once more, Robb asked “Does Highgarden have a gravesite, like a crypt?”

   “Yes, I suppose. It is not so solemn as this.”

   “Describe it to me.”

   “Well...it is...it is open skyward, but walled. It’s in the centre of a large maze. It’s circular, with statues of the Seven standing against the walls. The statues are very tall, near double my height. They have to be repainted every few years, but when they are freshly done they shine so beautifully that rainbows bounce off onto the plain walls.

   “The graveyard itself...I suppose it could be called a crypt. It has grass and flowers, and children play on it. In the middle there is a large hole, and a long spiral staircase that goes down for a few hundred feet. Every seven feet or so is a level, where the tombs are held. It was built only around three hundred years ago, when House Tyrell came into possession of Highgarden, so in truth our crypts are mainly empty.

   “The Gardener Graves...they’re below Highgarden. They’re like your crypts, if the stories are right. They go down for miles. It’s said any Tyrell who goes there is cursed.” She laughed, lowering her head. “It is silly.”

   “Tell me.” He smiled. “I like your voice.”

   She blushed. “Well, the most famous story is Looney Lady Leona, the great-granddaughter of Harlon Tyrell, the one who came to rule Highgarden after the Gardeners died. Well, in her time lords were still unsure over our rule, and rumours like the one about the Gardener Graves were used as evidence. Leona decided she would erase the rumour, and invited several lords and ladies to witness her entering the graves. The stories say she laughed as she walked through, japing and jesting about the dead Gardeners. She turned a corner, and when the lords and ladies followed her she was gone. They found her maybe ten minutes later, and she was quiet and would not talk. When she came back up, she seemed incredibly shaken. She would speak only in hushed whispers. Soon though, you could hear her screaming and wailing and hysterics all though Highgarden. A half-year later, she ran into the crypts and never returned. No one dared look for her, partly because they were rather glad that her screaming had ceased and because they believed the graves and made her mad. They say if you go down there, you can still hear her screams.”

   Robb was quiet. “Well. To think I thought you’d be frightened of _our_ crypts.”

   She smiled. “Oh, the stories are all fake, no doubt. Propoganda against House Tyrell, I believe.” She turned to him. “Im sorry, I’ve been talking far too long, and of stories far too outlandish.”

   “Oh, I like it. When you speak of your home you grow happier.” He pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, before blushing and quickly retracting his hand. “One day you must take me.”

   “I would like that, very much.” The darkling sky, the thunderous roar of a storm and a light rain had Robb escorting her to her room. She had found they had an easy silence, one that was comforting rather than uncomfortable. 

   "Robb, would you mind fetching my comb? Its in the vanity draw." She asked as she sat on her bed, wringing her hair so as to get any wet out. Robbins shuffled through her draw, and Margaery walked to the window. She would not mind being Robb's Lady, or Winterfell's Lady, she knew that now. The shuffling stopped and she turned with a smile, one that dropped when she saw what was in his hands.

   "Seduce the Baratheon boy..." As her cheeks reddened, she was sorely reminded of her encounter with Loras the day before.

   "Robb-" She began, but she knew it was too late. A hardened look settled on Robb's face, cold and dark. Gods, why had she not burned that lettter? Why had she not thrown it out? She was growing stupider by the day. "Robb, please-"

   "Was any of it real?" He asked, his voice quiet, but not in a way that would be called broken or timid. Rather, it felt like the calm before the storm. A crack of thunder exentuated the point.

   "Gods, yes." She whispered, reaching to hold his arm. He pulled away. "Please Robb, you must let me explain-"

   "Explain what? That you have hated me this entire time? Despised me? Disgusted by me? That you had designs on the Prince? I confided in you. I thought you my friend."

   "I have done nothing of the sort, Robb, and none of that letter implies such." But she knew it did. She swallowed, pegging honesty as the best way to make him calm down and trust her once more. "It was my father's want, Robb, not mine. I will not lie, I had wished for it at first. I had not wanted this marriage when I was first informed, I'm sure you felt the same. But I met you, and you were not like-"

   "Not like you manipulative, Southron..." He trailed off, but the insult was implied. "I will speak to my father. Mayhaps it can be arranged for you to leave tomorrow, since clearly this betrothal is not to your liking."

   "That's not our choice to make!" She blurted. "Robb please, you must understand! I threw that in the draw in anger weeks ago, I’d have burned it if I remembered, I burned the others-“

   “Others? And what did these others say? Seduce the Stark boy? Kiss him, listen to him, make him love you?” He stepped closer, and in his angered features Margaery was reminded of Grey Wind. The beast in question had slunk into her room, standing by Robb. He was growling again, his yellow eyes boring into her.

   "My Lady Margaery?" Interrupted Ginger from behind the door. "Supper is ready in the dining hall."

   "I’ll...I’ll take it in my room." She called back. She did not speak again until she heard Ginger's footsteps retreat. "Robb-" She implored again, but she knew there was no point. His eyes were betrayed and hurt; there was no coming back from this.

   He bowed with an air of disgust. "Lady Tyrell." Was all the reply she got, and the door slammed shut behind him.

 

 

   She did not go to supper, nor did she sleep that night. She wept, scolded herself for it, berated her stupidity, argued with herself all through the night till Ginger came to help dress her the next morning. The King’s hunting party left early, and she was left alone in the castle. She sat with Sansa and Myrcella for a short yet tedious while, conversed with Arya about Nymeria and chatted with Catelyn and Rickon before finally settling on walking the grounds in thought. She dreaded the return of the King and his party, for that would herald Robb. She supposed he wished to break off the betrothal, but her dowry, the harvests of Highgarden and the looming promise of Winter might sway him to continue with the marriage. The Tyrell alliance would be far more important than his feelings, surely. 

   She went back and forth like this for hours as she paced the grounds. She was about to check on her grandmother when she spotted Bran climbing the Broken Tower. He was high up, so high he was but a speck against the remains. Her heart dropped. She called for him to come down, but her throat was still hoarse from crying the night before, and he was too high up the tower to hear her. His direwolf howled and her panic grew ever more present. Those direwolves were a peculiar bunch, and she trusted their instinct. If it were worried, then surely something bad would happen.

   She ran forwards as she continued to call. Her words would not carry, so she settled for finding an entrance and running up the winding flights of stairs. There were windows, perhaps she could pull him in. She checked every room, checked all the windows for him, before finally finding the one he was at. He had paused at one of them, perhaps scared of the rats that pervaded the tower.

   “What are you doing!?” Cried an oddly familiar woman’s voice, slightly muffled by the thick stone walls.

   “How old are you, boy?” The voices were growing louder. Someone must have been in the room with the window Bran had found.

   “Seven.” Replied a shaky voice. Bran’s.

   She raced in, just as a man with golden hair looked over at a woman. Bran was at the window, his eyes wide with confusion and fear. “The things I do for love.” Said the man, just as he pushed Bran out the window. Margaery screamed, and the man and woman turned to her. They were nude, and her heart stopped as she recognised them. _The Queen and the Kingslayer_. She’d had inklings, Loras had told her that he guessed the two were closer than siblings should be, and Olenna made snide remarks on the subject. She’d been too disgusted to think much of the rumours, but here they were, naked and guilty. She might have liked to cock an eyebrow, make some witty comment, but she was too shocked over Bran.

   Cersei was hyperventilating. “Jaime-”

   The Kingslayer rolled his eyes. “Is every man and their horse perusing this tower?” Margaery moved to turn back, to find Bran and see what damage had been done, but the Kingslayer was quicker than her. With one hand he grabbed her arm, the other the fabric of her bodice, and the wind was knocked from her as she fell down the stairs.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chekhov's Letters. I really used the same shitty plot point twice lmao
> 
>  
> 
> ALSO: the update schedule’s gonna be a bit more stretched, since i’m uploading these faster than i can write them. i’ve been on a weekly upload schedule so far, but it might change to once every two weeks. i’m sorry for the change, but i’d prefer longer periods between chapters than me just abandoning this because i can’t write quick enough. i’m not sure if i’m making sense but i’m just trying to find a way that works. hope that’s all good!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to put a space after the elipses and it looks fucking gross sorry bout that
> 
> also tw period typical ableism? i feel like im supposed to add that

 

   She lays in an inky, smoking black abyss. Her mouth is choking on ash, her nose smelling only that unmistakle sharpness of blood, her body refuses to respond to her commands, she can only a hear a low wave that she assumes are words spoken from far away and her eyes are filled with nothing but unwavering darkness.

 

   “What... happen...” Says a panicked voice from the shadows, muted as if swathed. “She... alive?”

   “Alive... stable... unresponsive...” Replies another voice, older and calmer though still barely audible. “Broken tower... helping Bran... fell... accident... shock... she... live...”

   The voices fold back into the low wave and Margaery feels like crying, but her eyes refuse to do even that. She lays there so long, so long. Time passes, she assumes, though how long she cannot say. It is a long while before she hears a voice again.

   “Margaery!” This voice is louder, even more distraught than the first. “Mother... here... sweetling... wake... please... home...” She thinks of Highgarden, and a warmth surrounds her. She remembers those lofty arches and the tall pillars that she would climb. She remembers the towering marble walls crawling with hanging ivy and vines. She remembers the gardens. Poppies, bellflowers and saffron crocuses; evening stars and moon blooms; dragon’s breaths and frostfires; lilac, lavender and ladies’ lace; blood-blooms ad poison kisses; even the common tansy and gilliflowers and the _roses_ , oh the roses! Red and orange and pink and purple and white and _gold_. Her fancy is ripped apart by her body being pulled up and sharp knives, no, nails cutting into her back.

   “Hurting... her!”

   “Margaery, sweet Margaery.” Wails the woman, before letting her go back into the darkness.

 

   “Margaery...” Whispers a voice. She recognised it, even though she can barley hear. Her wolf. “Gods, forgive me. Foolish, stubborn, hot-headed... come back to me... I’m sorry... I should have... sooner... could not... bear... Mother... thinks... pushed... Lannisters... please... back... me...” His voice trails off once more, but she feels his hand in hers and that is enough. 

 

   “Milord... no hope...”

   “Said... same thing... Bran...”

   “Aye... mooms... ago...”

   “Try... harder...” The words are a low, menacing growl. They send chills through her body, and they warm her heart. 

 

   The words she does catch meld together. Lannisters, Mother, half-man, trial, pushed...she can make no sense of it. Sometimes she sees silhouettes against the dull light, but they disappear before she can even try to reach them. 

 

   “Robb... you must.. understand...”

   “Will not... kill her...”

   “Not... asking...you must...see...”

   “Then save her.”

   “Been... months... Bran... awake... Family... distraught...”

   “The journey... she would... die...”

   “At least... at home... not... here...” She wants to scream out that this is her home as much as Highgarden, that Robb is her home too, but her nonexistent words fall on unhearing ears.

 

 

   She wakes suddenly, in a tall, large room she does not recognise. She stretches her fingers, blinking away the darkness. She walks through the room hesitantly, the sound of her shoes hitting the marble tiles echoing through the castle. The ceiling is high, so high she cannot tell whether there even is a ceiling or if she is just looking up at the night sky. Seven tall thrones stand high around her.

  She recognises them, though truthfully she has never seen them before. On the tallest throne sits a man large in both stature and presence. His long face wears a solemn, strong and stern expression, his long hair and beard greying. Beside him is a woman, older but still with hints of youth. Long red hair, loosely braided and streaked with silver tumbles down to her waist. Her eyes are a soft blue, warm and welcoming, a babe in her arms.

  Third is a man, bulky and strong yet with a quick, slender grace. He watches her with studied eyes, long fingers holding the hilt of a sword as tall as she. His dark locks falls in soft curls, and could be called handsome did he not have such an air of unforgiving brutality. Forth is a coarsely muscled with ice-shot blue eyes and ebony hair, his hands wrapped thickly around a hammer. He does not hold all the harshness the man before him does, but he looks no less strong.

  Next is a young girl, a woman grown yet still within the grasps of adolescence. Her hair is long and thick and shifts with the light; silver white to honey blonde to fiery red to soft brown to ebony black. Her eyes shift too, green, blue, brown, grey, hazel, purple. She is the most beautiful being in the room, innocent sweetness coursing through her visage. Flowers adorn her hair; lemon yellow sunflowers, blue, red and gold roses. She looks the most familiar, yet the most unfamiliar.

  Beside her, crouched and shrivelled, is an old yet wizened beldam of a woman. Her spindly fingers twitch as thread needle through fabric, yet her unseeing eyes are focused only on Margaery. Seventh, and most eerie, is not a man nor woman but a shrouded, cowled beast. Through the sheer black of the hood she can see half the face is rotted, the other half handsome and sharp yet somehow as dead as the carcass-like other half.

  They are the Seven Who Are One, seven gods in one god, yet she holds no admiration nor fear nor even faith. They reach their hands out to her, their mouth opening wide and screams filling the room. She stands her ground though, defended as she is. The ground rumbles and she begins to run but no, she will not. Roots shaped like hands grasp at the thrones, crushing them into dust that chokes her. The gods fall, consumed by the great trunks that erupt from the ground. Soon, but not soon enough, a still silence falls back over the throne room. In the place where the Seven once sat stand a forest of trees, carved with bleeding face. She reaches out to one, the one most familiar, and she screams as the dream swallows her.

  She awakened, breathless, to a high-pitched scream, clash of metal and rush of water. A girl stood by the door with a pale face and an empty bucket at her feet, her dress and shoes soaked through.

  “Robb.” Margaery rasped finally, and the poor child rushed from her post. Margaery could still taste the soot and ash and dust that the gods had been reduced to. Her eyes were slow to obey her, and her body still refuses her commands. She lay back down as well as she can, her back screaming as loud as the serving girl.

   Hurried footsteps brought her mind to a calm, and she turned slowly to the door. A prayer wheel hung on the thick oak, twisted and weaved with dried flowers, branches and reeds. She reaches to touch her brooch, to bring her back to serene tranquility, but she cannot find it.

   Her wolf entered. He was taller than she though he'd been, his hair longer, his eyes darker, his hands shaking. He moved forward hesitantly. “Margaery?”

   “I...”

   “Are you alright?” His voice was urgent as he sat on a chair beside her bed, grabbing her hand.

   “I...yes.” Her vision was foggy and there was a rush that flooded her ears. She stared into Robb’s eyes, anchoring herself back down. 

   He looked a million emotions in one. Concern, delight, relief and more and more and more that Margaery did not have the words for. “I thought...I thought...Gods Margaery.” He said her name like a mantra, a promise, a vow. It was better than anything she’d ever heard. Her name on his lips was a song that she wanted to hear for the rest of eternity. “You’re back.” He said with a half-laugh.

   “I’m back.” She echoed his smile as well as she could. She wanted to reach for him , to hold him and never let go, but as she caught her reflection in his eyes her small moment of serenity was ripped away. She trailed his face, finding the marks of his worry and stress. “I‘m-m-my brother.” She breathed, her voice still broken. She’d meant to apologise, to beg his forgiveness, but the words had caught in her throat. “Where is he?”

   Robb took her hand. “He left for King’s Landing three moons past, when your family went back to Highgarden.”

   “They were here?” She coughed, and Robb handed her a goblet of a warm lemon and honey concoction.

   “Aye.” He replied. “Willas, Ser Garlan and your parents. A few of your cousins too...Aelinor and Ella?”

   She smiled feebly, her lips cracking. “Elinor and Alla. Did they try and flirt with you?” She teased, thinking of how her rather coquettish cousins would react to Robb.

   Robb blushed. “Alla did not speak to me much, but Elinor...she is very forward.”

   She laughed. “Perhaps there will be a Tyrell and Stark alliance after all.” She coughed again, and Robb sent for Maester Luwin.

   “I...I should like there still to be.” He said after a long pause. “Between you and I. I overreacted, I should not have done so. I-” He was interrupted by Maester Luwin rushing in.

   “My Lord.” He bowed to Robb, before hurrying to her side. He checked her thoroughly, spooning medicines into her mouth and applying balms to the scarring gash on her arm. “You seem healthy, if emaciated. We will have to ease you into eating again. Eight months is a long time to sleep.” Eight months...she began to dread. Much could happen in eight months. 

   “My grandmother.” She murmured. Robb nodded and left, leaving her with Luwin. He was a kind prescence, and she felt she liked him much more than Maester Lomys back home. 

   “Tell me how you are feeling, Lady Margaery.”

   “Pained.” She replied. “And stiff.”

   He nodded. “Can you move your limbs?” She did so, though it took some work. Luwin breathed a sigh of relief. “Young Brandon...it seems he has lost the use of legs.”

   She frowned. “Gods.” She hesitated. “What...what happened? My memory is blurred.” She was not about to announce the Queen’s infidelity and degeneracy before finding out what had transpired.

   “Bran was climbing the broken tower. He is normally a careful boy, as careful as one can be when they crawl about the keeps, but he fell. We found him, and found you an hour or so later when we inspected the tower. We supposed you must have seen him climbing and fallen yourself. The laceration on your arm...ironically, it seems the thing that broke your fall injured you the most. A nail caught on your dress sleeve, but cut rather deep. We feared an infection, that amputation might be necessary, but it’s healed well enough. I’m afraid the scar will stay, though. Do you remember anything?”

   She swallowed. “I...I saw Bran climbing. Robb told me he liked to, but he looked too high up. I ran up the stairs and...and I don’t remember much else.”

   Luwin smiled. “You did well, my lady.”

   “He still fell.”

   “Aye, but you tried.” Olenna hurried in as Luwin packed up his medicines. “I’ll come back later.”

   “Yes yes, you do that.” Olenna closed the door on him, before rushing to Margaery’s side. “Are you quite alright, child?”

   “Yes, grandmother. Hurt, but I’m fine. And I’m not crippled.” She added, when she saw the look on her grandmother’s face.

   Olenna sighed in relief. “Thank the Gods, not that they did much.” She settled down beside her granddaughter, with such a genuine look on her face Margaery feared she might cry. “But I’m just glad you’re alive. They feared...but it is no matter now.”

   Margaery could see the question on Olenna’s face. “Grandmother I...”

   “Yes, child?”

   “I saw something.” She could feel her heart beat faster. “When I ran up the tower. I saw the Queen...laying with the Kingslayer. Bran saw too, he was at the window. The Kingslayer pushed him, and when he saw me he pushed me too.”

   Olenna’s breath hitched, and her eyes burned. “Seven Hells.” Margaery could hear the anger coursing through the woman’s words. “I’m...Gods be good. This is...this...Cersei and Jaime...we suspected that already, but I suppose we have confirmation now...

   “Will...will you tell?”

   Olenna paused before reluctantly shaking her head. “No. It will do us no good. We can’t, we’re stuck. Accusing the Queen of incest, and her brother of attempted murder? All I want to do drive a sword though their necks but...but it would mean...they’re Lannisters. Tywin would never abide it. His wrath is all that is barring me from sending our armies to King’s Landing this bloody moment.” She closed her eyes. “You must stay quiet, tell this to no one. Not even your betrothed. The crippled Stark boy remembers nothing.”

   “S-So is Robb still my betrothed?”

   Olenna sighed. “Yes, it is best. War is inevitable at this point. Our people say Cersei is planning something, and Eddard is following up on the death of Jon Arryn, visiting the sites he saw last and such. He’ll find something he’s not supposed to. They all do. Mace is determined to have you queen, but I’m not marrying you to Joffrey. He is cruel, by all accounts, and now with this...I’m not throwing you into the lion pit.”

   “But if war is so inevitable, would we not want to tell-”

   “No. Not now, it’s too uncertain. I can’t risk that. I can’t risk you.” She lay a hand on her cheek. “Sweet Margaery. You must be prepared. Wed the Stark boy, stay out of all this.”

   She did not know quite what to say. “I...I should like to marry Robb.” She said quietly. She expected Olenna to spit some of her signature wit, but instead she lay a hand on her cheek.

   “I am glad.” She lay a kiss to Margaery’s forehead. “Your idiot father insists on bringing you back to Highgarden, but breaking the betrothal would be folly. The last time a Stark did so, the dragons died and the realm bled.” She sighed again. “I'll stay so long as the wedding, and then I’ll leave. Gods knows what Mace is doing without proper discipline. And...and Highgarden needs to prepare. The Tyrells need to prepare” She stood up, and Margaery couldn’t help but notice how tall the old, hunched woman was. As much as she disagreed with Olenna’s methods, she admired her. In this world a woman’s expected place was at her husband’s side, and Margaery praised any woman who broke the mould. She left, and after a few moments Robb returned.

   “You are quite alright?” He asked, his voice rather on edge. 

   “Yes, Robb. I’m fine.” She took his hand and closed her eyes. “Will you let me explain, now?”

   “You need not-”

   “I do, I need to.” She took a sharp breath before speaking. “I...I did not want to marry you. I’m sure that is obvious. I never wanted to move from Highgarden to the North. I believed it dreary and cold. I never wanted to marry you either, for I had always been told Starks were as, well...dreary and cold as their home. I will not lie, I wished to marry Joffrey. I wanted to be Queen, because since birth I had been told that was what I must be. I must further House Tyrell, I must be an extension for my house, a single rose amongst hundreds. Duty and family before myself, just like your mother’s Tully words. And yes, I manipulated you at first. But the same day I met you, the news of Jon Arryn dying came to us. It turns out my grandmother believed war was brewing, and that was why she had shipped me North to marry you, and Jon Arryn’s death confirmation for her. That information...it all came crashing. All of it. I realised how awful my mindset was, manipulating people for ideals that either were not mine or had been drilled into me from infancy.

  “I fell in love with you, Robb, because you were good, and kind. There were no hidden motives with you. You were so open, so unlike anything I knew back South. And those letters, those bloody letters, they confirmed all my doubts to my family. How they presumed to know what I wanted, moved me around like I was not their daughter, but a...a whore to be molded to their interests. You know Joffrey, of the rumours his name carries. They would have willingly married me to that cruel child. I regret not warning Sansa of him, or you or anyone.”

  “Margaery-“

  “Do you know what my family is like? My parents don’t love me, not truly, nor do they love each other. Their children are trophies to them. You know, my father hates Willas, though it is his fault Willas is crippled. There are times when I do not speak to them for days, even weeks. It was my grandmother who raised me and she is a shrewish woman, you know that. Blunt as she may be, she could force the sun into staying in the sky at night. That is who raised me, that is all I know. Manipulation, and cunning, and ambition. I did not have parents like yours, who love and dote on their children. Do you see-”

  “Margaery, stop! Just...I’m sorry. I forgave you months ago. It was stupidly petty and stubborn of me. And your explanation only cements that.” He squeezed her hand affectionately before looking down at his boots. “You’ve missed much. I feel...I feel I must ask...do you remember anything? Before your fall?”

   She knew what he was asking for, and so she frowned and shook her head. “No, I do not. Only running up the stairs to Bran.”

   Robb closed his eyes and nodded. “M-Mother thinks it was not an accident. That Bran was pushed, and you were pushed when you saw.”

   She shook her head again. “If that is so, I have no recollection.” The lie tasted bitter in her mouth. “If I ever remember, I will tell you.”

   Robb nodder. “Please do. A Catspaw came, tried to kill Bran. Mother and Summer-”

   “Summer?”

   “Oh-Bran’s direwolf. Mother and Summer were able to apprehend him before he could seriously wound you or Bran. She...she suspected the Lannisters had something to do with it, so she went South to King’s Landing. Then she, uh, captured the half-man.” Margaery smiled at the image, though the act itself caused her some distress. “And so I suppose she’s at the the Eyrie.”

   “We shall wait to marry till she returns. I am sure she would not want to miss her beloved son’s wedding.”  

   

 

   It took her a fortnight and a half to recover any semblance of strength but Robb stood by her everyday. He would keep her company, help her walk, even brushed her hair when she asked him once. She was grateful for him. She knew that during any of those eight months he could have shipped her off to Highgarden and declared her unfit to wed, but he had cared for her even after her betrayal. They were sitting in the parlour, her reading and him answering a letter to Arya when Maester Luwin rushed in, more solemn than she had ever seen him.

   “My lord, my lady.” He bowed, before producing a letter. “The King is dead, and your Lord Father has been arrested for treason against the crown.” Robb’s eyes grew dark, though he looked more shocked than angry.

   “Is this...is this some jape?” He asked, his voice quiet though no less intimidating.

   Maester Luwin shook his head. His hands were shaking. “I would never, not of this matter.” He handed Robb the letter, whose face grew with disgust as his eyes scanned it.

   “Gods, I knew she was enamoured...but this? Insolent girl. Not even a _mention_ of Arya.” He growls, crumpling up the letter. She takes it from his hands, placing a hand on his shoulder before un-crumpling and quickly reading the contents.

   “This letter was coerced.” She replied, trying to sound as soothing as possible. “You know it Robb, you know Sansa would never.”

   He looked rather ashamed at his previous outburst. “This is some plot. My father would never...treason? Robert was his greatest friend. And even so, he would never dishonour our house as such.” Margaery agreed, whole-heartedly. If there was one thing she had learnt of Lord Eddard in the short while she knew him, it was that treason against anyone, much less King Robert, was laughable. “Treason? Sansa wrote this? This is her penmanship-”

   “It is your sister’s hand, but the Queen’s words.” Margaery thought again of that dreadful day. She should speak of it, she knew, but this was war. Lord Eddard was imprisoned. This was no time to jeopardise when his life was on the line.

   “What do I do?” He asked, more to Margaery than Luwin.

   She did not have time to answer. “You are summoned to King’s Landing to swear fealty to the new king.” Said Luwin, rather grudgingly.

   “Joffrey puts my father in chains, now he wants his arse kissed?” His voice was rising.

   “This is a royal command my lord. If you should refuse to obey-“

   Without hesitation, Robb looked up at the maester with a cold face. “I won’t refuse.”

   “Robb-” She started, but he ignored her.

   “His Grace summons me to King’s Landing, I’ll go to King’s Landing.” He paused for a moment. “But not alone. Call the banners.”

   Luwin looked surprised, but not much. “All of them, my lord?”

   “They’ve sworn to defend my father, have they not?”

   “They have.”

   “Now we see what their words are worth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> totally stole some dialogue, but it’s better than anything i ever could or ever will write sooooo
> 
> yeah the dip in quality here is pretty evident in these next few chapters, sorry. this is the most popular book i’ve written and even though it’s still very small, i feel like i’ve set up expectations for something better than what i’m putting out. i hope i’m not disappointing anyone. i do not claim to write well, nor for this to be on par with Martin’s work. i just want y’all to know i appreciate all the comments and reads and i’m glad my stupid fanfic is at least fun to read for y’all.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> explanation for my shitty quality and upload schedule in the end notes

 

   The Lords and Ladies arrived over the next fortnight. She was not able to meet them all, as though she had regained most of her strength she was still privy to dizzy spells and nausea and Luwin had prescribed a month’s bedrest. A few stuck in her mind though, in the little time she spoke to them. There was the Greatjon, who was rather gruff but was good-natured with her, and who called her the _Robb’s Rose_ , a name that stuck. There was also Maege Mormont, who was her favourite of the bannermen. She was a short-tempered woman but who was somewhat affectionate to her and would tell her of her daughters back on Bear Island. The other lords, Tallhart and Cerwyn and Karstark and Glover and Bolton, all regarded her with nothing more than suspicion and cold curtesy.

   They were not inconspicuous in their attempts to oust her from her seat beside Robb. Lord Medgar Cerwyn brought his daughter Jonelle, an ample and homely girl more than twice Robb’s age. She was quiet, and did not respond to Margaery’s words with anything more than one-word sentences. Lady Maege was wont to mention her maiden daughters. Lord Rickard Karstark made some not-so-subtle hints that he would be partial to breaking his daughter Alys’ betrothal to House Hornwood. Lord Helman Tallhart mentioned his maiden daughter near every time any topic of marriage.

   Every time though, Robb would rebuff their offers, and when he did she could not help but hear that he had the solemnity and strength that his father had. It took a little while, but they realised soon enough he was not gong to budge.

   She understood why the Northerners disliked her, and it made her feel rather useless. She was here to wed, yet here she was still unmarried. With the Tyrell forces beside the North it would be a win easier than cutting through cake. It seemed, however, that her father was dead set against _actually_ helping her. He would not reply to her letters imploring him to join Robb as he was to be her husband. 

   Instead, she received only silence. She could not send more, this kind of information would be pounced upon by the Lannisters. The Tyrells abandoning their daughter, refusing to side with the Starks, the Northern forces desperate to the point they were having their boy leader’s betrothed beg her father for armies? It could not happen. So her only real value to these Northmen, that of her name, was left in the dust and snow.

   Her father might have been more agreeable were she actually married to Robb, as then it would be near impossible to wed her to the Prince, but she barely had the strength to walk the aisle to the hreat tree, much less properly consummate a marriage.

   She deduced that at one point when she was resting in her room, he had mentioned the dowry that had come with her from Highgarden and the promise of a supply of food that would help them through winter, because Lord Hornwood asked her how winters were in the Reach, what with the abundance of food. She answered that she suspected they were much easier to get through than in the other kingdoms, and she made a passing mention to the bountiful grain stocks that were stored below the castle like the gold of Casterly Rock.

   They seemed to like her much better after that, though she still heard ‘Southron Wench’ and ‘Highgarden Whore’ mentioned in the men’s cups. If they said it close enough to her she would make some remark, they would splutter and she would smile.

    They did not need to like her, only respect her. She doubted they would accept her before she lost the name Tyrell and gained the name of Stark, but there was no time to plan weddings, so really her worth was just the vague promise of the bounties of Highgarden that would come from a far-in-the-future marriage.

   There were days she did not see him at all, and the only times they were ever alone was for a few minutes at night before Maester Luwin would kick Robb our of her room declaring she needed proper rest, were he would talk to her about what was happening and she would comfort him over his father. As much as he was being a Lord, he was still only just fifteen, not yet a man grown. 

   “I’m scared.” He confessed to her one night, after much entreating on her part. “They’re are all older, wiser, stronger than me. Every time they contradict me I question myself. Am I doing the right thing? What if this...what if this...wha if Joffrey just kills him?”

   She took his hand. “Robb, don’t think like that. Do not think in maybes, you must only think in the now. And really, is age such an idicator of experience and wisdom? You are following your instincts.”

   He averted his gaze. “The Greatjon...he is good to me now, but the look in his eyes when he threw himself across the table...Margaery, I thought I might have died.”

   “Aye, but you didn’t. You stood your ground, and now he is your strongest supporter.” She pulled herself closer to him. “You’re a good man, Robb. A good son. Your father would be proud.” 

 

 

    It was the night before Robb was to leave that they got any real time to themselves. The moon cast silver light on the two as they ran through the seemingly empty castle. Nights at Winterfell were surreal in a way Margaery could not describe. She kept a soft grip on Robb’s hand as she pull him through, stopping at a series of stepping stones that were embedded in the walls. “Come.” She whispered, before grabbing the stones as she climbed.

   “Are you really doing this?” Hissed Robb as he followed her. “You just came out of an eight-month sleep after you fell out a tower. Did you learn nothing from Bran?”

   “Oh come now, It’ll be fun.” She laughed as she pulled herself onto the roof.

   “This is all rather unladylike for you.” Huffed Robb as he helped her gather her skirts as she sat down.

   “Ah, you must keep it a secret. I have rather a reputation to uphold.” She lay her head against him, gazing up at the stars. There was a long silence between them, and it could have been hours for all she knew. She broke it finally. “So you will leave on the morrow?” She would not go South with the host. At the end of most days she was exhausted, and she hardly did much but walk and talk. She would also be a prime target for capture and though she had a mind for politics she was no military general.

   He took a sharp breath before nodding. “Aye. I must.” He sounded as if he were bracing himself for her protests.

   She sighed. “You’ll come back to me, wont you? You mustn’t die. I am not built to live the cold alone.” She smirked. “My family will take me back, marry me off to some other man.”

   “I would not allow it.” He said in a low, playful growl.

   “Ah, but you’d be dead. How will you defend my honour from the afterlife?”

   “I’ll come back and haunt you, how about that?”

   “I wish for nothing else.” She smiled as she kissed him. He responded by burying himself in her neck, resulting in a rather unladylike squeak that made him laugh like a wolf into her hair. She thought perhaps she would not mind losing her maidenhead here, under the moon and stars. “Promise me you’ll come back to me.” She gasped. “You must, on your life.”

   He kissed her jaw. “I swear to you, Lady _Margaery Stark_ -“

   A laugh escaped her throat. “I am no Stark yet!”

   “-that I will come back to you. On my life and on the Old Gods and New.” He obliged. She looked into his eyes and drowned in their blue waters. She thought once again of the Mander back home and for once she did not wonder when she would see it again. They fell back into silence before she kissed him once more, sighing into his lips.

   “I’ll miss you.” She said finally.

   Robb smiled weakly. “As will I.” He looked down, blushing. “Miss you, that is. Not...miss me.” She laughed, though the sound was broken by a yawn. “It’s late.” Said Robb. “I’ll take you back, else we’ll fall asleep here and I’ll have my lords find me in the morning on the roof with you. Lovesick fool, they’ll call me.” He helped her up, and guided her down the ladder, pulling her down with his arms at her waist. They snuck back into the castle, walking to her chambers in sweet silence.

   When they reached her room, she paused. “My lovesick fool.” She whispered, kissing him one last time before closing the oaken door.

 

 

   Bran hid sniffle, and she extended a hand to his shoulder. The day was grey, in both weather and mood. She remembered when she’d left for Winterfell, and how lonely she’d felt.

   Her father had refused to see her leave. He was still sulking about her betrothal, but she didn’t give a single care. Her mother had cried and embraced her, making her promise to write. Garlan had been sulking too, butah that was because Mace had forbidden him from going with her and because Leonette had come down with the flu, making travel impossible. Willas had smiled and scolded her for marrying before him. He’d been sad too, as his injury forbade him from the long and arduous journey North. Her mother had given her a beautiful pale green gown that trailed the floor, decorated with myrish lace and lysene silk, tiny flowers made of real gold and high collar meant for married women. Garlan had given her a new bow and new set of arrows and a marriage quilt Leonette had made, depicting a weirdwood of seven branches, roses curling around the trunk and a wolf asleep at its base. Willas had given her a palfrey and new riding breeches and boots, with the promise he’d be giving her a falcon next time they met. 

   She hadn’t cried. She’d smiled and thanked them and pretended she was the happiest girl in the world, but inside she’d wanted to scream and kick her way back into Highgarden.

   Robb rode over on his shaggy grey stallion. With his shield, chainmail, sword and clock he looked as Lordly - nay, kingly - as she’d ever seen. To any other his face was stony, but she could see how strained he was. “You are the lord in Winterfell now.” He told Bran, who was struggling to hold in his emotions. "You must take my place, as I took Father's, until we come home."

   Bran nodded. “I know.” He sounded miserable.

   "Listen to Maester Luwin's and the Lady Margaery’s counsel, and take care of Rickon. Tell him that I'll be back as soon as the fighting is done." 

   “I told him.” She could see tears in Bran’s eyes. “He says no one ever comes back.”

   "He can't be a baby forever. He's a Stark, and near six." Robb sighed. "Well, Mother will be home soon. And I'll bring back Father, I promise." He turned to Margaery with a feeble smile.

   “My Lady.” He bowed. “When I return with my father, we will wed. It is wrong of me to slight you so.”

   She tried to return his smile, but she could not. She rode over, pressing her brooch into his hand. “My favour. You must live, you must come back, so you can return it to me.” Was it cliche? Mayhaps. Did she care? Not at all. Any assurance of Robb’s return was a blessing.

   “Aye, I will. Margaery, I...” His voice trailed off. “I’ll return.” He bowed once more before riding to his men, and before she knew it he was gone.

   “He’s marching the wrong way.” Said Bran quietly. _Aye_ , she thought. _He is_.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that roof scene was the most sexual scene i’ve ever written and it’s Awful and i Hate it but it’s literally the best i can do lads. i am Not Looking Forward to writing the wedding conusmation scene. It’ll probably just be implied because no way am i writing explicit smut
> 
> also fully stole book dialogue again whOOPS
> 
> sorry for the length, but i don’t wanna add a whole lot of unnecessary filler to bog it down, y’know? 
> 
> on another note, sorry i dipped. totally ghosted this story for like three weeks. i’m kinda in the middle of a months-long suicidal depressive episode because apparently my brain can’t just work correctly and i’m sorry if it shows in the writing. there will probably be longer waits between chapters, but i’m hoping i won’t have to go all hiatus because i know first hand how annoying that can be.
> 
> again, sorry for the wait and the sub-par quality. i know this is just a silly fanfic that doesn’t really matter but i do want to make it as good as i can.
> 
> love y’all


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